


Birds, Hounds and Broken Things

by Gnomeybum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 89,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnomeybum/pseuds/Gnomeybum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Ned Stark's death hanging over her, his daughter Sansa is left imprisoned and alone in King's Landing, betrothed to the King who ordered her father to be killed. She resigns herself to her fate until an unexpected character makes himself known to her and swears to keep her safe from harm. But can a little bird of Winterfell trust the words of a Lannister dog?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Eddard Stark's execution, this story follows what could have been between Sansa and Sandor at King's Landing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound saves Sansa from a foolish decision when Joffrey takes her to see her father's head.

It was hot, the day that Sansa's father had been murdered - murdered by the man that she was supposed to wed. Her crumbling illusions of the handsome, noble Prince Joffrey were shattered the moment he gave Ser Ilyn Payne the order, but all Sansa could care to remember was the sun burning her eyes as she looked upon the face of her father and cried.

He had been afraid; he'd had the eyes of a scared little boy and, as far as Sansa was concerned, he had never looked more gallant or more lordly than he did in those final moments.

She would later hear Lannister knights laugh about the fear in his eyes as he realised the betrayal of the promise he had been offered. She would hear them scoff and jest that Eddard had 'probably pissed his noble breeches' by the time the blade had struck.

But though Sansa heard these insults, she never listened to them. She would always remember the words that she had heard Bran repeat quietly to himself before she left Winterfell, words that her decent, loving and honourable father had left him with.

'The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid.'

Sansa had been afraid almost constantly since it had happened. There was no shame in that though, she realised. She wasn't her sister, who had enough fight in her for ten men; she wasn't Bran, with his solemn wits; she wasn't Robb, who was brave and compassionate and undaunted in the face of adversity; more than anything, she wasn't Rickon - she was no longer a child and she couldn't hope to be treated like one.

There was no shame in being afraid and she saw that now, as she was forced to stare into the wide, unblinking eyes of her father, his head mounted unceremoniously on a spike atop the Red Keep. It was hot again and, this time, the relentless sun gave her mercy, almost blinding her as she looked in the direction of the heads that embellished the wall. It almost obscured her view of the dried up, bloodshot eyes of Ned Stark, the swollen, oozing face of her former Septa and the countless heads of good Stark men who had been slaughtered for the King's pleasure and vanity. Joffrey was taking great delight in torturing her with this sight and with his words. Rage swelled within, rage and tears and hatred, as she was forced to stare upon the sad remnants of her former, happy life.

"That's what I'll give you, Lady Sansa," the King said, smiling vaingloriously, "Your brother's head."

She tasted metal in her mouth as she ground her teeth to stop from crying and instead she steeled her gaze cooly in his direction. The words fell from her mouth before she could stop them.

"Maybe my brother will give me _your_ head."

A stifling and sickening hush descended upon the company on the wallwalk but in her determined defiance, Sansa refused to remove her eyes from the king's. Joffrey made an effort to appear unfazed and nonchalant as he regarded her with cold eyes, but the young Stark could see the stringy muscles in his neck tense up with a flare of anger. He swallowed his contempt with some degree of effort and said in a low voice:

"You must never mock me like that. A true wife does not mock her lord. Ser Meryn, teach her."

Meryn needed no second request in introducing the hard, sharp back of his gauntlet to her face, not once but twice. Pain exploded across her mouth as her lip bloodied and split but, though she wept, Sansa never once let out a cry of pain, not even as the force of the slap flung her to the ground. She would not give Joffrey the satisfaction. He regarded her with disgust all the same.

"You shouldn't be crying all the time. You're much prettier when you smile and laugh. Wipe off the blood. You're all messy."

Considering that dismissal enough, Joffrey turned his back on her, bored of his wounded plaything. He was, after all, still to marry her. His mother would be livid if he was too rough. 

Sansa glared bitterly at him as he moved languidly about the severed heads and meandered the parapet. How easy it would be, she realised, to orchestrate an accident.

It was high, the bloody battlement of the Red Keep with its thorny crown of traitors' heads, high enough to kill with certainty, and the wallwalk was without barriers. One push was all it would take, and Sansa found herself bracing her jaw in determination. He would likely take her down with him, grab one of the delicate, fluttering sleeves of her dress and drag her to share in his death. Alternatively, he would fall and she would be executed and laid to rest beside her father, baking and rotting in the blistering sun. At that moment, with the tears burning hot in her throat and her eyes, with the rage balling tightly in her fists, she found that she couldn't find the will to care about her own fate. 

She felt herself begin to rise from her unceremonious heap on the ground, her heart full of bloody intent. Before she was even aware of what was happening, however, she found herself face to face with Sandor Clegane, who put himself in the way of her sinister path, kneeling before her to join her station on the floor. She felt sickness rise in her throat as she anticipated another explosive slap across the mouth, lowering her face and squeezing her eyes shut in fearful apprehension, though what she felt against her lips was a much gentler sensation. 

With a softness that was untold of from a man full of such anger, spite and ferocity, the Hound dabbed at the split in Sansa's lip with a small square of cloth. It stained red instantly, soaking up the evidence of her beating and illustrating for her the calibre of her wound. He wiped away the blood from her chin and her mouth, delicately, meticulously and with care, before he finally looked into her eyes with a purposeful intensity. Her vivid, glassy blues met his dark, scarred ones and that was where she saw it: the warning. 

'Don't do anything stupid', the warning said, 'don't act in anger. If you give into your whims for revenge then he has already won. Think, girl.'

His gaze held for a moment more and then was gone, before he put the handkerchief in Sansa's hand and stood up once more. She watched him arise, her face unable to disguise the mix of wonder, confusion, gratitude and misery that she was feeling. Her spectrum of emotions was lost on him, however, as he had turned away from her once more, the gentle sliver in his personality already switched off and hidden away, as though it never was. He was the Hound once again, cold, bitter and unfeeling and he would not show his compassion to her again. If Sansa had not been its first-hand recipient, she is not sure she would have believed in it herself. It was fleeting, but it had settled the fire raging inside her, leaving her feeling hollow and exhausted.

All that remained within her now was a desperation to be alone to weep.


	2. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound ruminates on his behaviour towards Sansa Stark.

Sandor Clegane was in a foul temper for the rest of that day, not that anyone would be able to tell the difference. He stood in court for the next five hours, watching his King act as judge, jury and executioner to whichever poor sods were put in his path. He counted seven men put to death, three exiles and eleven imprisonments. Clearly, Joffrey's victory over the Stark girl had put him in a good mood.

It had been unnecessary, he grumbled to himself bitterly, unnecessary and exceedingly cruel. The girl had been in pieces since her father's execution and to bring her up to look upon his now rotting face was too much, even for him. Still, no matter how unpleasant he thought it, he didn't know why he had stepped in to her defence the way that he did. That could have cost him sorely and he had never been a man who took risks for others. His experiences had taught him to look out for himself and no one else - it was not in his nature to put himself in another's affairs. Life had been cruel to him, as it had been cruel to so many others, and he felt that it was his prerogative now to take care of himself. That was how he had lifted himself from obscurity, how he had removed himself from Gregor's ever looming shadow, how he had put himself at the right hand of the King. He had never had the luxury of depending on others, so why should he shoulder the burdens of anyone else?

He stamped toward his chambers, a great black thundercloud roaming the halls of the White Sword Tower as he approached his sleeping cell. All he wanted, now that his many royal duties were over, was to drink and sleep. He felt tired, the sort of tired that came from a whole day of babysitting a fool, and he had no desires to socialise with any more of them. He could hear the others laughing and talking in the Round Room and the sound grated upon him. There was no love lost between himself and his Kingsguard comrades - as far as he was concerned they were all just weak, frivolous green boys who would bend the knee to anyone. All were named 'Ser' but there was not one among them who he believed were worthy of the Kingsguard.

"She went down like a ton of bricks," cried out the voice of Meryn Trant, "She gave Joff lip, so I split hers!"

The others laughed at that, empty laughs that had forgotten what suffering was and why it was not theirs to mock. She had done nothing to deserve the torment that she faced and yet they spoke of her as though she were a criminal, accountable and punishable for her crimes. She was an innocent and, while that had never bothered Sandor before, her weakness before people she had trusted like kin irked a very familiar part of him, a part that he thought he had long buried.

"That idiot brother should pay heed; Starks are clearly not made for this game. King in the North, indeed!"

Foolish, drunken ramblings about things that they knew nothing of; Sandor tired of their mockery. He had no great love for the Starks, but their dependence on the old ways of loyalty, valour and truth were not, as he believed, something to judge with contempt. It was foolishly optimistic, yes, but never worth mockery. Listening in to their stupidity was almost sobering and so he continued on to his cell before the damage was done, an unknown and forbidding feeling weighing heavily upon him. He took a swig from the wine skin he carried, tasting the sub-par Dornish red that he had managed to get his hands on. It was too sweet and left a sickly taste in his mouth, but he had no doubt that it would do the job. He had no intentions for his night beyond drowning himself in wine and sinking into a deep, drunken sleep. There was so much tension built up within him that he had considered visiting one of Littlefinger's establishments but, for a while now, he had discovered that he found little satisfaction in whores. Of late, he had found satisfaction only in himself, a fact that only served to put him in a worse temper. He was once able to ignore the way that the women closed their eyes or looked away as he took them but he found increasingly that he was no longer capable of continuing with someone so clearly repulsed by him. Eyes held so much within them, and just once he would have liked to know what it felt like to have someone's eyes meet his as he made her his own.

The White Sword Tower was empty and silent but for the dim laughs still travelling coldly through the narrow halls like a ghostly wind. As remote as it was though, the Hound's room was just beyond the raucous activity going on below and he was thankful when he could no longer hear the idiotic, drunk-brave ramblings of Ser Meryn. He stalked through the door and threw the wineskin down before busying himself with the many buckles of his cloak and armour. He had no want for the shy and inexperienced hands of young squires today and he couldn't stand a boy who could barely look at his face when helping him shuck his heavy vestments. When he was finally down to the coarse tunic that lay beneath, he rubbed his face wearily and surveyed his cell, with its grim four walls and its bed made for sleeping, not comfort or finer activities. It could hardly be considered a fine way to live, but when all one desired was to sleep, drink and serve, he had no need for much else. He threw himself down and drank some more of the strongwine from its leather skin. It chugged out faster than he was able to swallow and a thimble-full dripped from the weaker side of his jaw, seeping through the knotted irregularities where his mouth once laid. Swearing, he reached for his handkerchief but stopped when the days events caught up to him and he recalled.

The little bird.

He did what he needed to in order to stop her from harming the King. That was his duty after all - he was a member of the Kingsguard and that meant keeping Joffrey safe. But why, then, did he not throw the threat from the roof as he would have any other traitor who would seek to harm the crown? Would he have mopped the blood from Ned Stark's neck as well?

But who was he to deny anything to that pair of pretty blue eyes, eyes that asked for nothing but demanded the world? Eyes that had once unknowingly dragged his darkest secret from his mouth? He had been just as furious, that night, and much, much drunker. The prospect of facing his own brother in battle had brought back memories long buried, memories that turned his stomach. They had spilled out of him as quickly and as easily as profanities but the regret he felt was immediate. She had listened intently to his story and had had the grace to have tears in her eyes when he ended it. Her face had spoken of horror when he described the way that his brother had held him to the grate and melted away half of his face but she never faltered in her courtesies. She had listened and responded in a way that was appropriate, never once letting the bile rise in her throat as he described the evils done to him. Gregor Clegane was no true knight, she decided that evening, and she had laid a hand on his shoulder without a hint of terror or revulsion.

He hated her for that.

He hated her for the illusion she had given him, tricking him for a just a moment into thinking that perhaps he wasn't as ugly and beastly as he had always believed. He hated her for the way she sometimes looked at him, a mix of innocent fear and wise understanding, something that came out looking a little bit like fondness. He hated her for the fact that, ever since they had met, the numerous ways he imagined having her were so good that whores who gave him the real thing paled in comparison and were rendered useless to him.

He had never imagined himself to be a man turned stupid by a pretty face, but his actions spoke louder than his words in this case. He hadn't intended to tell her about what Gregor had done to him - he had never told anybody that story, not willingly. It was the last time that he had ever allowed himself to be weak at the hands of another and it was not something that he volunteered freely. He had threatened to kill her if she ever told anyone what transpired, but instead of responding in fear and horror, she just repeated, with further intensity, the promise of her silence. He hadn't meant to tell her about all of that and neither had he meant to clean her bloodied face when he witnessed the cruelty that was afforded her. But somehow, he was unable to stop himself from these misdeeds. Something about her made him lose his head and his wits and he found himself doing increasingly foolish things for her sake.

Against his better sense, he found himself in the same place as he had these three nights running - laying on his cot, his cock in his hand, thinking of his King's betrothed. As he thought of her pretty pink mouth and the flawlessness of her alabaster skin, he jerked himself roughly. The idea of someone as tainted and ruined as him taking someone as lily white as Sansa Stark was almost laughable, but he found himself unable to stop the arousal it brought him. Fucking her would be the most exquisite bliss, as though her giving her purity to him might somehow bring salvation and negate the wrongs he had committed. But, as he ran his hand firmly along the thick length of himself, he saw the reality in it. An image invaded his brain, unwelcome and unwarranted, of the unworthy King throwing her down and inexpertly taking the Little Bird's maidenhead. He couldn't unsee the juvenile ruttings of the blond bastard, defiling the Stark girl's innocence as he was forced to stand by and allow it to happen. She belonged to Joffrey, the king's own little plaything, and she was not Sandor's to touch. She was on her own and he reminded himself of one thing:

Just because he wanted to fuck her, did not mean he would risk his neck to do so. He may be won over by her pretty looks and her soft nature but Sandor Clegane was no woman's fool. Women were liars, by their very nature, and he would not be won over by the sweetness paid to him by Sansa Stark. If she thought that she could secure a protector by flashing those winterblue eyes at him, she really was as silly as Cersei believed her to be. She could make whatever simpering comments she liked at him but, in the end, no woman could love a man with half a face and a stone for a heart.

If she believed that he was her ally, she was very much mistaken, for dogs had their masters and The Hound was of a particularly loyal breed.


	3. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and The Hound come to blows after the tourney for the King's nameday.

'He did it for me again,' Sansa thought to herself as she watched the Hound with undisguised wonder, 'he saved me again'. 

The King's nameday had arrived and Sansa sat beside Joffrey as he disinterestedly watched second rate knights attempt to battle. She could see his temper mounting as the day went on and no blood was shed. He was getting so bored and bloodthirsty that he had even played with the idea of having his Dog fight the champion to the death, just to see someone die. She was glad when The Hound had turned his nose up at this in contempt. As the champion of the last tourney - the one held, she remembered mournfully, in her father's honour - he had been almost valiant, rushing to the defence of the handsome Ser Loras, even battling his own brother to do so. He had acted like a real knight, that day, and even the crowd had been won over by him. He had looked surprised and almost embarrassed by the attention given to him and had slinked out of the limelight as soon as he was able, but she had not forgotten the bravery and the courage that he was capable of. She had cheered as loud as any that day, maybe even louder, though whether it had been for Ser Loras or The Hound, she wasn't sure.

The tournament got duller and the day got hotter, and it was only when the idiot knight, Ser Dontos, stumbled out into the arena with his bottom hanging out of his armour, blind drunk, that things began to get interesting. She could identify the exact moment that Joffrey's eyes had lit up with frightful glee as he conceived of the various vile ways he could punish him for showing such insolence on the King's nameday. When he finally decided on having the man killed, however, Sansa had been unable to allow it to happen. She just wasn't capable of sitting back and watching as Joffrey had the poor, bumbling drunk executed but her outburst had been foolish and she had very nearly incurred his wrath again. No one told the King what he could or couldn't do and, even before he had been crowned, Joffrey had always been a particularly spoiled boy, refusing to listen to 'do not' or 'cannot' or 'must not' from anyone. She had nearly signed the poor fool's death warrant herself with her cry of 'you can't!' and Sandor Clegane was the only man that had managed to stay the wretched King's hand, and the only thing that stood between herself and another cold, metal slap. Her lip was still bruised and sore from the day she was reunited with her father's head and, the second that he had wheeled on her in his fury, she had feared another beating. He looked at her with such repugnant hatred that she barely knew how he had masked his contempt for her for so long, long enough for her to fall for his lordly ways and his golden good looks - long enough, to her shame, for her to choose Lions over Wolves when the crucial time came. The days when she had thought that he was her flawless Lannister love felt like aeons past and she felt dirty all over when she thought of her blindness to his manipulation and his evil. There was a pleasure on his face when he exercised his power over people weaker than himself and he delighted in making Sansa cry. She was constantly telling herself that she would never give him any more of her tears but he seemed an expert in finding new ways to crush her resolve and reduce her to sobs. The Hound had saved her from that, for at least one day more.

"What a man sows on his name day, he reaps throughout the year."

Was that even a saying? It sounded like something that the common folk might say, a peasant superstition spread to perpetuate good behaviour amongst children, but she had never heard it before. Could he have invented it simply to protect her from the King's anger? He had uttered it so casually too, so coolly, as though he really didn't care about what the outcome was. He dropped it idly into the conversation in support of Sansa's claims that it was ill luck for a man to kill another on his nameday, but he had done it in such a way that Joffrey never would have suspected that it could have been a ruse.

It had placated the King, either way, and he had finally agreed to have the man serve as his fool. It had made Sansa feel sick to her stomach to have to simper and speak sweetly to him to win his favour.

"He is a fool. You're so clever to see it. He's better fitted to be a fool than a knight, isn't he?"

She had laid it on so thickly that she didn't know how he hadn't seen through her straight away, but he was willing to listen to anything that might stroke his ego. There was a sense of pride to be won in the small victories, however, and Sansa couldn't help but feel quite smug in being the one manipulating Joffrey, rather than it being the other way round. She saw it as a success, one that had left the king in a better mood than he had been before.

Until his uncle made an appearance, at least. From the whispers of chambermaids to the lips of the Queen herself, Sansa had heard little but bad words of Tyrion Lannister. She recalled his presence at Winterfell only vaguely and had not had any dealings with him, but she remembered hearing that he had made his way to a brothel as soon as the royal procession had reached the North. She had also heard dark gossip about his part in her brother Bran's suffering. Her father tried to keep her innocent to these things, deeming her too young to be concerned with the twisted affairs of adults, but since his death she had been almost incapable of avoiding it.

Tyrion spoke to his nephew in such a disrespectful and callous way that Sansa couldn't help being awed by the little imp. He had even extended his sympathies to her regarding her father, right in front of Joffrey! That had terrified her, as she had to take the utmost care in forming an appropriate response that wouldn't paint her as a traitor. In the end, though it sickened her to the core and made her hate herself more than a little, she simply said:

"My father was a traitor and my brother and lady mother are traitors as well. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey."

Every time she spoke ill of her family, she felt as though it had been her neck that Ice had swung through, as though her blood was shed. Arya never would have allowed herself to simper sweetly and reject her integrity. She would have fought hard until her last breath and she would be ashamed to see her sister bend the knee to their father's murderer. She found herself, for the first time, not only understanding her baby sister but envying her too. She would have given anything for just a taste of the Wolf that lay in her sister's heart. She recalled The Hound's words to her, what seemed like years ago, and she realised had never felt more like a singing little bird than she did at this moment.

Put in a stinking temper by the veiled mockeries of his uncle, Joffrey had stormed away from the tournament, leaving her to make her way back through the streets without the usual procession. She picked the beautiful skirts that had been gifted to her by Cersei off the floor as she walked, feeling suffocated by the silks and the velvets that adorned her. She was barely recognisable as a Stark now, with her hair elaborately woven in the fashion of King's Landing, wearing clothes that were befitting to a Queen. It felt like years since she had worn her hair down or curled up in a furskin cloak and it made her feel like she was losing her identity, bit by bit. Before long, she really would be nothing more than a caged bird, singing on command.

As she followed the trail made by Joffrey, she took her time. She was in no great hurry to return to the Red Keep where she would be forced to speak sweetly to everyone and act as though they didn't keep her father's head suspended from the walls. She wandered listlessly and contentedly, feeling the sun on her face and the breeze through her hair. It was moments like these that she could pretend that none of the pain she had gone through had happened. She could pretend to be a simple commoner's daughter, out to buy dresses or run errands. She used these fleeting minutes to erase the hatred in her heart, if only for a little while. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sky, breathing in deeply to taste the freedom of air that was not confined between four walls.

Suddenly, she felt herself collide with something large and fell backwards, reeling. A strong hand caught her before she hit the ground and pulled her up sharply, and she opened her eyes to see the gnarled face of The Hound staring down at her from his lofty height.

"There you are, girl. I've been instructed to bring you back to the castle."

Sansa's heart sank. She was never allowed to stay in her reveries for long, though she had hoped to see this one out for just a little bit longer. She turned her face to the ground and said softly:

"Yes, my lord, of course."

He barely made a noise, beyond a quiet grunt of affirmation, before he spun away from her and led his pace through the streets. Sansa picked up her skirts once more and followed in a little jog, struggling to keep up with the great strides of his long legs. He seemed to notice this and slowed a little, allowing her a more gentle stroll, though he never said a word.

They walked for a few minutes in silence and, though Sansa usually had no great desire to speak to him - he was, after all, an imposing presence and he made her feel as though he was looking at her through a lens - she began to feel uncomfortable as the quiet went on. She stared frustratedly at his large, muscled frame as she walked just behind him. Her awareness of her courtesies and her manners dealt her a nagging need to thank him for the things that he had done for her of late, though she felt nervous about addressing him. She did not know how to gauge his temper and neither did she know how much of what she said to him was relayed back to the King. Eventually she offered to him:

"You were kind to me today, my lord. Not just today. I am grateful for everything you have done for me since... Since my father's death."

"Since they culled every fucking Northman in King's Landing, you mean?" Clegane bit back viciously.

Sansa didn't know how to reply to that, so she simply nodded her head. The Hound walked a few more paces before stopping and turning to face her sharply. He seemed angry and Sansa knew that it was something she had said, though she didn't know what. He stood close and spoke quietly through his teeth. 

"I wouldn't have to do so much for you if you would keep your bloody mouth closed," he growled furiously.

Sansa felt all at once scared and outraged, but it caught in her throat as he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her into one of the dark little alleys, backing her up against the wall and towering over her menacingly.

"Do you want to get hurt, is that it?" He continued, "are you so desperate to join your father that you're willing it now!?"

"No! Please-" Sansa struggled against the hands pressing her to the wall but he held her firm. "Please, my lord, you're hurting me!"

To her surprise, The Hound released her almost immediately at that and he turned his back on her, rubbing his face irritably. She breathed heavily, holding her arms to herself in defence. A pregnant silence descended while both searched for the words to say.

"You're going to end up getting yourself killed, little bird," The Hound finally muttered, "And your brother's efforts will be for naught."

"I'm trying," she replied quietly, eyes on the ground, "I'm trying as hard as I can."

"It's not enough."

"I have done everything I can!" Sansa cried fiercely and suddenly, already feeling the hot tears springing to her eyes, "I have denounced my family name more times than I can count! What more can I do!?"

"Make yourself believe it!" The Hound roared, advancing upon her once more, holding his terrible face within inches of her own lovely one. "Tell yourself over and over again that the Starks are traitors and that you love your King! LIE BETTER!"

"And sing more pretty songs? Is that it!? Is that what my life is worth now, the pretty songs of others?" Sansa felt the adrenaline rush through her and she pushed The Hound away viciously. "You mocked me, my lord, you mocked me for singing my songs!"

"Better a singing bird than a dead one," The Hound replied darkly.

Sansa was filled with fury and tears and all of the unspoken words of the weeks past. He wanted more from her than she would ever be able to give. How dare he, The Lannister dog, condescend to tell her how to act? He was as much to blame for her imprisonment as any of them and she cursed herself for forgetting that, even for a moment. In her desperation for a friend, she had allowed a few kind acts to cloud her judgement. She couldn't trust a single one of them, much less feel gratitude toward them. She was alone and she could not afford to forget that.

She broke free of him and began to run from the alleyway, clutching her breast as though her heart might break. With tears running down her face and hatred in her eyes, she turned back to The Hound with as much dignity as she could muster and said coldly:

"You mocked me once for repeating the words my Septa had taught me. Well, a bird is no worse than a dog. We are both as pathetic as one another, my lord, but at least I recognise it. Hounds or birds - we are both destined to a life beyond our own making."

He simply stared at her, his eyes hard and unyielding. His jaw was set and his teeth gritted, but he did not speak out in his anger. Sansa pulled her dress back into a more decent and polished position and collected herself, the weakness gone from her voice and any evidence of her manhandling erased. Wiping at her tearstained cheeks, she lifted her head, put up her shield of disdain and sniffed contemptuously at him:

"I am the King's betrothed. I am of noble birth. Touch me again and I will see to it that no amount of service to Joffrey will stop you from seeing punishment."

With that, she turned from him and left, making her own way back to the castle, leaving The Hound with nothing but the words echoing in the dark alleyway.


	4. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is forced to face Oakhearts, Lannisters and Cleganes over the course of one uncomfortable dinner.

The days passed following Sansa's less than pleasant conversation with The Hound and she had been left in relative peace. Joffrey's nameday had been and gone and the city began to relax once more, the guests and the knights who had come for the Tourney making their way back across Westeros to wherever their homes might be. Sansa could feel something different about King's Landing, however, a feeling that had struck her during her brief brush with freedom the other day. She was unable to put her finger on it, but she could sense whispers of discontent across the capital. It was written on the faces of beggars every time the royal procession ventured into the city and it was in the eyes of the peasant serving maids who fluffed the king's pillows: Joffrey was making a name for himself already and he was determined to go down in the history books. Sansa knew, though she would never say it, that he was much more likely to be written in the same chapter as Aerys the Mad King than Baelor the Beloved. It seemed as though the small folk saw that too.

She studied her face in the mirror of her dressing table and fingered the tight coils that this week's handmaiden had put in her hair. Cersei had decided that Sansa's handmaidens must be employed in a very short lived fashion, lest a friendship form between them. It was one of the many subtle ways that Sansa was reminded on a daily basis that she was not here as a guest. She might be treated like one quite often, but she was no more a guest than Joffrey's new fool Ser Dontos was. She was a prisoner and she would not be afforded luxuries such as friends. 

It made her think of Jeyne Poole, poor, silly Jeyne, whose father's head Sansa had seen along with Ned's and her Septa's. She hadn't seen Jeyne for weeks now and her heart broke to think of her, scared and alone. She was not independent or strong and had always relied on Sansa for courage, even with silly things like talking to handsome knights. Jeyne would have to find her own strength now, now that they were no longer protected from the world by their fathers. Both of them had a responsibility to grow up fast and she only hoped the her dearest and oldest friend could adapt and keep up with the world that was crumbling around them. In spite of the arid temperatures of King's Landing, Sansa gave a shiver. Thinking of Jeyne, in a place where she wasn't even allowed to achieve first name basis with her handmaidens, made her feel lonelier than she had ever thought herself capable of. She had been surrounded by people since the day she was born and had always been popular and well loved. Girls had constantly wanted to be her friend and boys had forever fallen for her pretty looks and sweet words. She was not made for a life of isolation and she could feel it suffocating her.

She remembered looking at Cersei with admiration and awe when she visited Winterfell. It was the first time she had laid eyes on the Queen and she was sure that she had never seen someone so poised and so elegant. Her own mother, who she had always deemed a beauty - she did, after all, favour Catelyn's looks with her blue eyes and her flame of hair - paled in comparison to the rich gold of House Lannister. And when Cersei had complimented her dress, the one that she had made herself, she had instantly sold her soul to the Lioness. She wanted to dress like her, speak like her, even wear her hair in the same style. Now, though, she felt like nothing more than a Wolf in a Lion's clothing. 

Gritting her teeth to stop from crying as she stared hard at her reflection, she exhaled sharply and brought her hands and her nimble fingers to the many bands, clips and pins that were holding the elaborate halo of hair in its place. Each one she removed sent a lock of auburn hair tumbling beside her face, framing it wildly. When every one of them was gone, she looked at herself again and smiled, the first smile she had allowed herself in weeks. Starks of Winterfell were pragmatists and they had much more important things to be doing than spending hours labouring over their hair. She felt a strange sense of familiarity and, though it had been nearly a year since last she saw Winterfell, she felt as though she recognised the girl in the mirror now much better than she did the one she had been looking at since then.

There was a knock on her door and she turned sharply toward it. It was likely Ser Meryn or Ser Arys, here to collect her and escort her to the dinner that she had been invited to share with her betrothed and her future mother-in-law. She wasn't often made to eat with them or even spend that much time in their company alone but, when an offer such as this was made, it was understood by both parties that her presence there was not optional. More than seeing Joffrey, who made her heart run cold in any case, she dreaded seeing Cersei. She had not really spent any time with her since Ned's death, beyond attending court with her. She couldn't guess what her reception would be like, but Sansa could make an educated guess that it would not be the sweet and sugary one that she had grown so foolishly fond of in the past year. Now that her father was dead, Sansa's uses had been exhausted and Cersei had no more need to win her over. She was surprised that she had even bothered to invite her to dine with them.

On the other side of the door was Ser Arys Oakheart and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. He smiled broadly at her, as he ever did, and offered her an arm politely.

"My lady," he said, his courtesies rarely forgotten, "you look very lovely this evening. If you are ready to go...?"

"I am, Ser, thank you."

She linked her arm gently through his and left her room. She was glad for Ser Arys, as he was gentler to her than most and was consistently well mannered. He didn't have the rough rudeness of some of the others and when he beat her, he did it much more softly than people like Ser Meryn.

As they walked through the stone corridors, Arys made a smattering of conversation with her, enquiring after her health and making more pleasantries about how she looked. She appreciated it more than the silence though the disparity between the knight who spoke so politely and the one who hit her was never far from her mind. She gave him a hollow smile as she thought to herself, 'even The Hound never hits me'. She allowed him to carry on his pleasant chatter, however, because it was at times like this that she could pretend that she wasn't lonely any more.

"How did you like the tournament the other day?"

"It wasn't as good as the tournament for the King's Hand," Sansa admitted before checking herself and adding politely, "though you competed very well, my lord."

"Did I, indeed? Your words are kind, my lady. Perhaps next time, you will grant me a favour to ride with?"

"Oh," Sansa uttered, feeling all at once shy and a little uncomfortable, "yes, I suppose I could."

"Perhaps even a kiss for good luck?" Arys asked with a laugh, though it was an empty laugh that Sansa felt was rather false. She pulled her arm from his subtly and smiled another poor excuse for a smile before saying sweetly:

"I'm afraid that I don't know how my beloved Joffrey would appreciate that."

Arys' smile never left his face, but his eyes went dead at that and she could see the difference in his demeanour. She immediately regretted putting her shield up, for it left her in the cold once more and they walked in silence for the rest of the journey. As they approached the dining chamber, she felt apprehension in the pit of her stomach.

'Lie better,' The Hound had said. She intended to. She wasn't about to make any more bad decisions, not today. She couldn't rely on The Hound to rescue her again, she realised, and wasn't sure she could do it all alone. She would toe the line and give Joffrey no reason to get angry at her again. She would make him believe in her esteem for him. She would show The Hound the pride of the Starks.

Arys stopped when he arrived at the door but he did not knock to herald her entrance. Instead, he leaned lazily against the doorframe and smiled at her, his handsome face all but glowing with friendliness.

"Here we are, my lady. Your betrothed awaits."

"Indeed," she replied, unsure what else to say. There was a pause during which Sansa anticipated being introduced to the dinner room, but he simply remained smiling at her in his beatific manner.

"He's lucky. You're very beautiful."

"I should go in, Ser," she said quickly.

"There's no hurry, is there? You're in no desperate rush to-"

"She said she should go in, Oakheart. Or are you deaf as well as stupid?"

Both Sansa and Arys turned their heads sharply and, to her surprise, Sansa felt very glad to see The Hound towering over them and glowering. She exhaled a breath of relief before remembering her manners and saying to Arys:

"Thank you for escorting me, my lord. I am sure that I shall be fine from here."

Arys bowed a little in response before stalking back down the halls, his pride slightly wounded by The Hound's intrusion. Sansa watched him leave and then cast her eyes to the floor, uncomfortable meeting the hard eyes of her protector.

"Thank you, Ser."

The Hound made a disgruntled noise, ignoring the misnomer of 'Ser', and knocked on the door to the dining chamber. He offered her no words in response and never met her eyes, but Sansa didn't mind so much. She had nothing to add to their conversation a few days before and his rough manners would surely only add insult to injury at this stage.

The door opened and both figures entered, The Hound stooping a little for room. There was silence around the table as they walked in and the air felt frosty as though that silence had not been disturbed in a while. Around the tastefully decorated dining table sat Joffrey, lounging at the head with an undisguised sense of entitlement; Cersei, elegant, poised and with a face that screamed disdain; and Tyrion, smiling pleasantly with eyes that trusted no one. Sansa could think of no three people she would like to share a dinner with less. She smiled sweetly at the queen and then took her place at the table quietly while The Hound took his place in the shadows. Joffrey scowled at Sansa's silence.

"Have you nothing to say to your future husband, my lady? To your king?"

Sansa cursed inwardly to herself. She had only just entered and she was already disturbing the peace. She chanced a glance at The Hound to see his reaction and she could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth jerk upwards just a little.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I forgot myself for a moment. Good evening."

"And what of my lady mother? And my uncle?" Joffrey was already enjoying himself but Sansa was unprepared to be his entertainment. She cast her eyes toward Cersei and Tyrion and said softly:

"My lady, my lord - good evening. I trust you are well?"

Tyrion opened his mouth to reply but Cersei cut him off before he could utter a sound. She was scrutinising Sansa with her brilliant green eyes that never missed a detail and the scornful turn of her lip suggested that she found something that she was unhappy with. 

"Were you not visited by a handmaiden, Sansa darling?"

"I was, my lady."

"Your hair. It's a mess." She turned to Joffrey, smiling falsely. "Joffrey, what do you think of your fiancée's hair?"

"It looks beastly," he replied, instantly catching onto his mother's game, "like it needs a brush run through it."

"She must have been a dreadful handmaiden. What do you think would be adequate punishment for someone who would send Sansa to us looking like this?"

"Perhaps she should be cast out from the castle," Joffrey pondered with a frightful grin on his wormy lips, "or better yet, flogged for her incompetence?"

"You are the king, my darling. Whatever you decide must be done."

"No, please, it wasn't her fault!" Sansa had listened to their discourse with mounting guilt. She had never intended to hurt anyone - she had simply wanted to feel a little bit like home once more. "She did my hair beautifully, Your Grace, I was the one who pulled it out."

"But why on earth would you do that, little dove?" Cersei asked with mock curiosity.

"I just wanted to do my own hair today, my lady. I meant nothing by it, honestly."

"You will not come to me like this again," warned Joffrey, leaning threateningly across the table. A smile was on his mouth but his eyes were dangerous. "I like it when you're pretty but now you look like a Northern savage."

"You're right, my love, of course you are. It was stupid of me. I wasn't thinking."

"Speaking of Northern Savages," Cersei said pleasantly, turning to her brother, "why don't you tell us how father's army fared against Robb Stark's? I hear that even you joined in on the battlefield."

Tyrion hesitated and looked at the face of the Stark at his table. Her face was placid and motionless, frosted over like a still Northern lake. Even her eyes betrayed nothing.

"Sweet sister," he finally replied, "do you really think that this is appropriate dinner conversation? We wouldn't want to put our guest off of her food."

"Sansa, is this topic offensive to you?"

Every eye in the room was on her but the gaze that she could feel the hardest of all was that of The Hound. This was what he had meant. This was her chance to show him how well she could lie. The Lannisters were testing her and she would rise to the challenge.

"No, my lady. My brother is a traitor and I would relish to hear how well my king's family defeated his army."

"Lady Sansa," Tyrion said firmly, his eyes on her and no one else, "you do not need to listen to this."

"Lord Tyrion," she countered coldly, "I want to."

He held her gaze for a moment and then relaxed back in his chair with a weary sigh. As their dinner was served to them, Tyrion recounted his story, from his liberation at the Eyrie to his appointment of Hand of the King by his father. He was blissfully sparing with the details, to Sansa's relief, but she was still shocked by some of the reports. She recognised names of some of the noteworthy men killed, her father's bannermen who had been welcome in Winterfell all of her life. The horde had been decimated and she almost felt tears spring to her eyes when she heard names of deceased Hornwoods and Karstarks and Manderlys, names that had surrounded her since birth, that she had heard from her father's lips when he spoke of loyalty and honour. She heard of the capture of Wylis Manderly, the son of fat, jolly Wyman Manderly, a man who she remembered sitting at feasts and taking up half a bench as he laughed and ate and drank. She heard about the Northmen turning tail and fleeing as their army was scattered. As Tyrion spoke, Sansa continued to politely eat her dinner, though the meat tasted like dirt and tarnish and steel and the wine felt like old, clotted blood in her mouth. She struggled to keep it down but she knew she must.

She took in every piece of information that she could and tucked it away in her heart to weep over when she was finally alone. For now, nothing that the Imp could reveal would make her break the charade.

"What do you think of that, Lady Sansa?" Joffrey scoffed happily, leaning across the table to leer uncomfortably at her, "The Northern wolves have retreated back to lick their wounds."

"They are cowards, Your Grace. It was an elegant victory."

Joffrey smiled at her response, though it was a humourless smile that never met his eyes. He sat back in his chair and picked at the grapes that now sat before him, tossing them casually into his mouth. His gaze never left her and he appeared to be sizing her up, though she couldn't be sure what for.

"I'm bored of you," he said finally, after a minute's consideration, and then indicated towards his guard. "Dog, take her back to her room. I tire of her company."

Sansa felt relieved to be leaving his presence but horrified at being thrust back into the care of The Hound once again. She had no doubt that he would harbour some sort of ill formed opinion of her conduct and she had no energy left to endure his spite. She rose from her seat and curtseyed at Cersei and Tyrion but when she turned to Joffrey he simply waved his hand at her in dismissal.

Without another word, she left the dining chamber, followed closely by the King's dog. The corridors were darker now that the sun had set and the servants were still busy lighting lamps and torches. When Sansa surreptitiously flicked her eyes towards the face of her companion, she found it harder and more terrible than she remembered. The warm glow of lamplight caught the wrought side of his face and the shadows highlighted the knotted twists of scar tissue that overcame him. He was fearsome to behold but her heart never forgot the horrors that had befallen him.

"I tried my best, my lord," she said suddenly, ripping through the quiet between them.

She broke the silence and, for some moments, she was worried that she had made a mistake. The silence that had been mutually appreciated now felt heavy and uncomfortable. She almost thought that he hadn't heard her, until he sighed hoarsely and stopped walking. He looked down at her, meeting her eyes with a firm gaze.

"You did well, Little Bird."

Those were the only words he offered before he continued his journey and Sansa was left awed by them. Those three words validated the pain that she had endured that evening and she felt a sudden rush of levity. A strange sense of something like adrenalin rushed through her at the approval of the man that had only days ago accused her of not trying to take care of herself. A smile broke out on her face as she realised what he had done; he had protected her again, not by picking her up where she had fallen but by teaching her how not to stumble in the first place. He had taught her a valuable lesson, one that she would not quickly forget and her heart swelled with gratitude. 

Scurrying to keep up with his long strides, she fell into step with him and maintained his gait until they reached her room. When they arrived, she put her hand on the door handle and made to retreat. The Hound turned to walk away but stopped when he felt a small hand touch his arm. He looked down at it suspiciously and then looked up at Sansa's sweet and apologetic face.

"I did not mean to anger you the other day," she said quietly, "I only wanted to offer my gratitude."

"Very well," came the reply, uncomfortable at her touch.

"You have done so much for me. More than I had any right to hope for. I understand why you said what you did. it was unbelievably helpful. I understand the position it puts you in, to do things like that for me. I'm so very grateful."

She smiled at him, shy and brazen all at once, and didn't remove the hand from his arm. She felt that they had come to an understanding and she was grateful for it. She looked up at him with a smile and said as she squeezed his arm a little:

"Thank you, My Lord."

Suddenly, he snatched his arm away from her. He was angry, she could instantly see that, and she backed away and reached for the door. He glared at her for a moment, his teeth gritted as he tried to suppress the rage he was feeling.

"What game are you trying to play, girl?" He spat at her.

"I'm not," she replied, calmer than she felt, "I'm not playing a game."

"Do you think you can win my loyalty with sweet words and pretty eyes?"

"No, Ser-"

"I am no Ser!" He roared, "I am not a knight, here to rescue you!"

Sansa was silent but she did not retreat. She stood firm and looked at his face, the anger in his eyes and the slight tremble of his lip as he bared his teeth like a feral animal. His hair had slipped from the position that he carefully brushed it and it revealed the great extent of his scarring, from beneath the neck of his armour to the entire right side of his scalp. Beneath the firelight, he was the very picture of a monster, terrible in his fury, and she knew better than to try and reason with his pain - for that was what she saw in him, pain - so she simply bowed her head subserviently.

"Of course, my lord. I know. Thank you for escorting me. Good night."

She started to reach a hand out to him once again but noticed his almost imperceptible flinch and thought better of it. He turned on his heel and stormed away, the darkness shrouding him as he fled. Sansa sighed sadly and went into her room.

A handmaiden waited there, ready to prepare her for bed. Her hair was brushed through and her dress was shed and, while this was done, she quietly wondered about the frightening mystery that was Sandor Clegane. The thought of him chilled her and his actions made her feel vulnerable and afraid, yet she couldn't help but feel as though there was more beyond the frightful and angry wall that he built around himself.

She saw it in his fear, she realised as she lay in bed, pulling the covers tightly about herself. Sansa had been loved from the day her mother brought her into the world. When people touched her, it was to stroke her hair or kiss her face or embrace her. To her, touch had always been about caring and loving; she was unfamiliar with touch that was designed to harm - until recently, at least. However, when she thought back to the story he told her, the story of his scars, she felt the unmanageable need to weep for him. She wondered whether any one had ever done that before, cared enough to cry? To him, touch had always been there to do harm, to cause pain, to draw blood. He looked at her touch, at her sweetness, and he saw deception and lies. No wonder he had flinched when she tried to lay a hand upon him.

Sansa shed many tears that night, comforted only by the dark that surrounded her. She cried for her brother and her mother and all of the Northmen that had given their lives to avenge her father. And, to her surprise, she cried for the damaged man who had learned to treat an honest gesture like a spear wound. 

'Why,' she wondered, falling into a restless slumber as she tasted bitter, salty tears, 'does the whole world seem to run on blood?'


	5. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a fitful night, Sansa decides to relax and forget her worries in the bath house, unaware that someone else had the same plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I left this so long! I promised a really lovely girl that I would have a chapter for her but then life caught up with me and blah blah blah. So I am really sorry that I didn't update for ages, but hopefully now I can start being a bit more regular.

The morning light streaming in through her windows was an assault on the deep sleep that Sansa had finally achieved after hours of fretful tossing and turning in the shadows. Her dreams were plagued by bloodshed and steel and, more than anything, the screaming faces of her mother, father, siblings and even the bastard half brother that she had tried so hard to exclude from her life. Her heart held their cries like an anchor, weighing down on her chest from the moment she awoke with a strangled gasp.

There was something else too, something unbidden that haunted her sleep: fire. As a creature of the frozen north, fire had always been an asset, a friend on a cold winter’s night, but now... She had seen the destructive force of fire, had seen what it could do to a man, had witnessed what it could do to a heart. Though she lay in a warm bed, swathed in duck down and bathed in morning sunlight, the memory of the bloody blaze that ravaged her dreams chilled her to the core.

Though reluctant to leave the comfort of her bed, where she could wrap herself up in the fine silks and pretend that they were wolfskins and that she was, in fact, home again, she alighted and set herself down before her vanity to inspect her reflection. In simpler times, when her main priority was to look beautiful and enchant the King, she would have been horrified at the vision that she saw in the polished glass. Her alabaster skin, usually the clear, translucent colour of fresh northern snow, was blotched and puffy and her blue eyes were red rimmed. Her excess of tears and her lack of sleep had left her a pallid shadow of her usual effortless beauty.

Fortuitously, a shy knocking at the door heralded the appearance of a handmaiden who let herself in by slipping quietly through the heavy wooden door.

“Good morning, my lady.”

“I want a bath,” Sansa demanded instantly. She had long given up on remembering her manners with the simpering girls who came to make her presentable for court. A small part of her felt guilty whilst a large part of her felt sad at this behaviour – she could hear the sharp chastisement of her poor, ill-fated  former septa in the back of her mind, and it was a dagger to her heart. ‘You must always speak well to those who serve you Sansa’, Septa Mordane would remind her whenever the she was rude, ‘just because you have power does not mean that you should abuse it’. The Stark girl had never appreciated this fact more than she did now that she was a caged curiosity of the Lannisters. Still, she found that she struggled to follow her Septa’s advice when she felt so hateful.

“I can have a tub brought up, My Lady, though it may take some time to heat the water...”

“Then take me to the castle baths,” Sansa commanded flatly. She was in no mood to wait for this girl to flit about her making preparations, preferring instead to lower herself to one of the castle baths to make a point. It was not accustomed for one of her standing, prisoner or no, to use the public baths, but if she had to spend just a moment longer trapped within the four walls of her bedroom, she was sure that she would scream.

The girl looked unsure for a second and Sansa’s guilt twinged again, nearly to the stage that she relinquished her demand, but then she nodded with a quiet ‘yes, my lady’ and reached for Sansa’s robes. It was a small victory, but a win nonetheless.

Wrapped in a modest robe and made decent enough to roam the castle, Sansa led the way to the stairs, followed demurely by the mouse-like handmaiden who had her arms laden with swathes of heavy fabric, combs and bottles of lotions and hair oils. In spite of the heaviness in her chest, Sansa felt strangely uplifted by doing something that would be frowned upon by Cersei Lannister – these small acts of rebellion, whether they went noticed or not, were one of her only true pleasures and she had grown to cherish them.

They made their way through empty stone corridors, the soft soles of their shoes barely making a scuffing sound in the hollow air. It was quiet and, from the sun’s position in the sky, Sansa gathered that it was late morning, nearly midday. She had slept for longer than she thought, and the castle’s usual residents must by now have taken to court, to town or to one of the many clandestine meetings that were constantly happening in dark corners and forgotten offices. There wouldn’t be a better time to stake her claim on the baths than now, as she was certain that there would be no one loitering about.

When they finally arrived at the doors, the floor was warm underfoot. The heat radiating from the earth below served to heat the bathwater and it radiated through the stone. The wooden door was swollen with moisture and was damp to the touch when Sansa pressed her hand against it to push it open. Steam escaped in a little gasp around the door frame when she made her way in, and Sansa’s handmaiden made to follow her, but was quickly rebuffed by the flame haired Stark.

“I will attend to myself,” she said coldly, holding out her hands for her belongings, “I bid you watch the door. If anyone comes by, tell them that they will have to wait until I am ready.”

‘ _If I am one day going to be queen’_ , she thought miserably, ‘ _I suppose I should start acting like one’_. Almost instantly, her mother’s kind and proud face flashed across her memory. Catelyn Stark was considered by some to be queen of the North, and she did not treat her serving staff in such a way. ‘ _I mustn’t lose sight of myself’_ , she reminded herself once more, ‘ _I am no Lannister’_. She sighed and said in a gentler tone:

“Thank you. Please knock if you have any trouble or if anyone comes to disturb me.”

“Yes, my lady,” the handmaiden responded, her eyes cast to the floor.

Sansa quickly closed the door and marvelled in the tranquil silence of the bath. It was a decent sized room, dark and shadowy but lit warmly by torches, and there was a large pool cut into the floor in which she was to bathe. Everything, from the ceiling to the floor, was the same sandy-red coloured stone that made up the rest of the Red Keep and, with the warmth from the steaming bath, the red glow from the flames and the wet hum of almost-still waters, it was almost like being cocooned safely within a womb. Sansa sighed deeply and, after depositing her belongings on a table behind an ornately carved wooden screen, she began to shed herself of her layers.

It felt marvellous to peel away the heavy layers of fabric, scraping away at every rich coating of Lannister gold, red and ivory. Each different item of clothing was designed to constrain, with thick, rough fabrics and carefully boned structures keeping every inch of her body in place. When she was finally down to the translucent petticoat that just barely hid her body from shame, she wrapped her arms about herself and hugged her small frame tight. It was rare that she was able to stretch and contort freely, and weeks of straight-backed, firm posture had made her ache for movement.  In a quick motion, she whipped the thin material over her head and folded it carefully on the table before sitting on the edge of the bath.

She dipped in her little toe to gauge the temperature and instantly wanted to immerse herself. It felt like melted butter on her skin and, as she sank the rest of her soft, long leg into it, she purred with delight. Soon, she was entirely immersed, sat on a submerged stone ledge with water up to her creamy white shoulders. She breathed in deeply and out with gusto. It was the warmest and safest she had felt for weeks and for just a brief, glorious moment, she could pretend that none of it had happened at all. She closed her eyes and listened as the water swirled around her, steam licking against her exposed skin.

In her haze of girlish daydreams, she giggled at the thought of herself in a public bath. These were frequented by men, by warriors and sers about the castle, not by future queens. She wondered if Loras Tyrell had ever been in there, whether he had sat stripped to his alabaster skin and sat in the same place that she was. It was an indecent thought, one that sent delicious shivers down Sansa's spine and, for that tiny shard of time, she was glad to be able to return to the role of a silly little girl mooning over the handsome Knight of Flowers. She wanted to be that silly little girl more than anything now, skipping lightly about Winterfell without a care, stealing lemon cakes from the kitchens and ogling Lords and visiting dignitaries with Jeyne Poole.

But what was she now? A prisoner, trapped in a home, a family and a marriage that made her skin crawl. She had no gallant knights now – the closest thing that she had to a hero was a gruff, unyielding Hound who could barely stand the sight of her. Her fairytale Prince had transformed into a vile, murderous coward, whereas the villainous beast had become her only hope. She could feel her childlike dreams slipping away, one by one.

She sighed and slipped down into the water, letting it wash over her shoulders, neck, face, until she was totally submerged in the warmth. Her fiery hair turned to liquid bronze in the water as it pooled around her and she could feel the tears of yesterday melting away from her skin. Finally emerging, she leaned her head back onto the edge of the bath and closed her eyes.

Her moment of tranquillity was, however, cut short almost instantly. Her blue eyes dashed open when she heard heavy, metal footsteps approaching from outside, footsteps that she knew could not be attributed to her light-footed handmaiden. When she heard the hand on the door, she reacted in a panic – no one could see her in such a state! Why had her maid not stopped the intruder? Moving quicker than she ever thought possible, she leapt out of the bath and ran to the safety of the wooden screen, holding her arms to her chest and peering through the ornately carved holes to witness her assailant.

Her heart was a bloody lump in her throat and her held breaths were begging to escape her lungs. Instead, she stood statue-still, barely allowing herself to shiver in the comparative chill. She held her eye to the tiny peephole in the wooden screen, through which she could see a figure emerging beyond the door and into the shadows. The figure was tall and muscular and, even before he entered the torchlight, Sansa’a heart had sunk into her belly.

 _‘Why’_ , she cried inwardly, ‘ _why did it have to be the Hound?’_

Hundreds of knights, servants and squires could be found at the castle on any given day, but fate had thrust them together once more. She was dying to cry hot, bitter tears at her foul, unfair luck. Had she not been through enough? Had she not suffered an adequate amount already? Did she really have to endure these daily humiliations too?

She prepared herself for his anger: he was undoubtedly going to scorn her for acting rebelliously again and, though she didn’t know how he had found her so soon, she was ready to accept his criticism. He was right. She had been reckless and he had every right, as the King’s dog, to chastise her for it. However, in spite of all her self-deprecation and her willingness to face her punishment, The Hound began to do something rather unprecedented.

He sighed wearily and rubbed a hand across his face. He looked tired and stressed and, for just the slightest instant through her fear and her bewilderment, her heart softened just a little – until, that is, he started to undress.

As soon as he began, she wanted to cry out, to tell him to leave, but she was rooted to the spot, unsure of how to proceed. She knew that if she left it much longer, it would be impossible to explain her presence there, but she was so afraid to make herself known that the words simply would not escape her lips.

The Hound had brought in no squire or serving boy with him, no doubt preferring, as Sansa did, quiet moments away from the flurry of people that always filled the Red Keep. He set to work on his own armour, starting with the gauntlets. Sansa was afraid that he would seek to put his clothes where she had, on the table behind the screen that had become her hiding place, but instead he threw them indelicately off to the side of the room. She supposed that she couldn’t be too surprised – his manners had always been boorish at the best of times and she had no reason to believe that this would be any other way in the safety of his own company.

He began to tackle the vanguards next, and Sansa began to realise that she had never even seen the man out of armour, let alone anything _else_. The more metal layers he began to shed, the more she found the breath hitched in her throat, and she had to swallow thickly to clear the uncomfortable knot that banded around her stomach. Pauldron came next, followed by breastplate and plackart and cuisse and greave, until he was no longer the usual wall of steel that she was accustomed to. He had been reduced down to his arming doublet and Sansa found that she was somehow more afraid of him now than she ever had been before.

That wall of armour, she realised, was what kept him at bay.

He was a beast, proud and severe; he did not care about how others spoke of him or treated him. He was unmoved by their scorn. With that fierce hound helmet and the large mass concealed by his armour, he was safe to bear the ire of lesser men. With his walls down, however? Well, Sansa had seen that. She saw it the night before, when she had pushed her luck with his kindness; she had seen it after the tournament for the King’s nameday; she witnessed in after the Tourney of the Hand. Without the carefully planned barriers of his aggression to protect him, he was vulnerable, and that was when he was at his most volatile.

When he started unlacing his thick, quilted gambeson, Sansa knew that she had waited too long. In spite of her position of equal exposure and indecency, she knew that his wrath would settle with her. As he shrugged himself wearily out of his doublet though, she was entirely unable to make a sound. She would have paid any price to be spirited away from this place, regretting with vitriol the stupidity of her choice. She had presumed to have some sense of power in the Red Keep, even over something as small and pathetic as the baths, but even that had slapped her across the face. She cursed the handmaiden, bewildered and confused at the strange betrayal. Had the Hound seen her? Asked her why she was there? Had her serving girl lied or feigned ignorance? Or... maybe he knew Sansa was there? Perhaps this was a cruel game to punish her for the night before, or another test? So many questions were running through her mind that she barely even noticed Clegane’s state of undress until she heard the snap of chainmail hitting the stone floor.

She was taken aback at first; in spite of what they thought of Northerners in King’s Landing, they were not wild and uncouth savages and she was not largely accustomed to seeing men in any state of undress, even members of her own family. So when she saw the great, roiling ropes of muscle in his arms joining the slabs of hard sinew at his chest, she was markedly stunned. Beneath his enormous armour, he sometimes seemed like a mass of raw bulk but stripped down to his chest, she got a full impression of the strength he was really capable of. He was taut and thick, and his chest was insulated by a wiry down of black hair. It was the hair that threw her – she tried to picture Ser Loras with such a thing, but it seemed wrong somehow. The Knight of Flowers was, according to some of the spiteful whisperings that Sansa had heard at court, just barely out of boyhood, whereas the person standing before her was something much more brutal and raw. He was a _man_ and comparing him to the smooth skinned, juvenile good looks of Ser Loras or even Joffrey was like comparing a greyhound to a direwolf.

She could (‘objectively,’ she reminded herself quickly) recognise the draw to such a thing – he did not have the careful, elegant and, she supposed, almost feminine beauty of a lord, the sort of beauty that fluttered her heart. The Hound’s appeal was something very different – it did not race to her heart but rather pooled in the lowest pit of her stomach and collected dryly on her tongue. It was something very alien to her and she could not decide what it meant. All she knew was that the trail of dark hair that led from his navel and travelled below his trouser line made her stomach twist in an uncomfortable waythat she neither trusted nor understood.

It was looking in that area that made her finally see beyond her own immediate shock and embarrassment and notice the ugly and spiteful twist of pale scar tissue that wound its way up from his hip and gouged its way into his abdomen. When Sansa noticed that one, the others all started to become clearer: the aggressive purple bruising at his ribs; the knotted cicatrice of an old wound that had been inexpertly sewn back together;  and the burning, _good god_ , the burning that followed from his face to beneath his collar. Sansa had not understood the extent of Gregor’s spite until she saw the shiny pink cluster of skin and scarring that patched most of Clegane’s right shoulder and pectoral. Over twenty years had passed and the skin that had grown there still looked as raw and angry as fresh healing. Sansa could not suppress the ache to pity him, though she knew that her pity was unappreciated and unwelcome. His body was a treasure map of misfortune and agony, with each scar telling a grisly tale of bloodshed. She couldn’t even imagine how he felt when he examined each one in the mirror – was it pride he felt, looking at this reminder of his victories? Somehow, she doubted it.

With only one item of clothing left to remove, the Hound’s hands moved to the strangely alluring triangle of hair at his navel and began to unlace the strings of his thick linen trousers, but Sansa could not allow this to go on any longer. She opened her mouth to call out, but was almost instantly interrupted by a noise at the door.

“My lady, is everyth-”

The handmaiden stopped dead in the doorway as Clegane stared at her, confused. There was a moment’s pause in which neither spoke or even moved, but that moment was over as soon as it had begun.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing woman? Get out!” the Hound roared, roughly retying the laces on his trousers.

“Forgive me Ser, I did not know you were here!” cried the maid in return, covering her face with her hands, “please forgive me! I was looking for Lady Sansa!”

Sansa’s blood ran cold; that had piqued his attention.

“What?” he said in a dangerously low tone, “Where is she?”

“She was here – I only stepped away from the door for a moment, I swear!”

“Then where is she now?”

“Here.”

Sansa finally spoke, her voice a quiet respite between the booming roar of the Hound and the shrill squeaking of her maid. She poked her head out from behind the screen, her eyes wide and her face a picture of innocence. Clegane stared her down, taking in her damp hair and her bare shoulders. He swallowed thickly before growling at the maid:

“Leave.”

She did not think twice before complying, leaving Sansa and the Hound alone in the awkward quiet. Now that she was discovered, Sansa was free to throw on her robe and wrap herself tightly in its warm confines and safety before she stepped out from behind the screen, standing uncomfortably in the man’s aggressive glare. He said nothing for some time, just staring her down with dark, unreadable eyes.

Finally, Sansa could bear it no more and she mumbled quietly, barely a whisper:

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you want revenge, Little Bird?”

“Excuse me?” she replied, confused.

“You feel that I have committed a slight against you, offended you. You wanted to get your own back.”

“I don’t understand, please, I-”

“ _You wanted revenge_!” He suddenly roared, advancing violently upon her, “You saw the chance to humiliate me and so you took it! Well _Stark_ , look all you want!”

He stood back again and held his arms out, opening himself up for her scrutiny. Every scar, every burn, every heartbreaking imperfection. She cast her eyes to the floor, shy and scared all of a sudden, unable to look at him anymore, and she heard him scoff darkly.

“Have you had your fill of looking upon monsters, Little Bird?” He gestured towards a scar on his chest. “Does this satisfy your desire to see me suffer?”

“No, it wasn’t like that!”

“Did it amuse you to stare upon my injuries?”

“You don’t understand!”

“What about this?” he thundered, motioning towards the raw scar tissue of his burns, “were you eager to see the extent of my torment?”

Sansa could hold it in no more. She began to weep, boiling tears slipping down her face. She hugged herself tightly, as if protecting herself from any more of his attack. He didn’t understand and he was determined not to, the stubborn wretch. She wasn’t horrified by his imperfections and disfigurements, but his pain was breaking her heart. She looked up from the ground to find him looming over her, his face not three inches from her own.

“You are weak, Little Bird. Weak and pathetic.” The Hound’s voice had grown cold and menacing and his face was ugly with hatred. “You might win people over with your sweet songs and your pretty eyes, but all you can offer them is your cunt. And when that has lost its use, you will be thrown away. My face might repulse, but a loyal dog is never without its uses.”

His eyes narrowed as he glared down at her, taking in her distress and her state of undress. His lip curled cruelly.

“Unless this is your game? Cry to Joff that you have been assaulted by his brute of a Hound? Run to him with your dignity savaged?”

The tears stopped instantly as Sansa listened, horrified, to the Hound’s dreadful deductions.

“Were you hoping to be rid of me for good? Perhaps you believed that the King would kill me for daring to touch you?”

“No!” Sansa cried, “I would never! My lord, you have done so much for me. I couldn’t...”

Finally meeting his eyes, she realised that what she saw there was not truly anger or hatred but sadness – volatile, bitter sadness. He truly believed that she would only look upon him with revulsion, that the only reason to see his body was to mock the savagery it had met with. She realised that he was embarrassed to the point of rage that she had even caught a glimpse of the disfigurement that ravaged him, believing her to be disgusted with what she found, and Sansa suddenly wanted nothing more than to assure him that he was severely mistaken. Her hand reached the short space between them and sought his cheek – not the chiselled, stubbled one, but the violently scarred. As her cool fingertips slowly contacted his skin, he froze.

“My Lord,” she began but the Hound cut her off quickly.

“Leave now, Little Bird,” he growled roughly, “Just... Leave.”

With fresh tears threatening to spill if she did not, Sansa dropped her eyes to the floor and did as he bade her.


	6. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion notices the Hound's interest in Sansa and decides to take the matter in hand.

Tyrion tired of staring at heavy tomes, weathered ledgers and dusty parchments. He felt that he had been stuck in the Tower of the Hand for days without respite, settling affairs of the state (as well as hiding them), and he longed to see sunlight, even just for a moment. He wearily lifted his head from the desk and called through the door:

“Bronn? Bronn, are you out there?”

His sellsword companion did not respond and had evidently excused himself from his duties. Tyrion snorted, more in amusement that derision – he could not deny that Bronn had said from the beginning that he had no intention of bending the knee to the little lord and he had been true to his word. Yet, in spite of blatantly flouting orders and disregarding most of the things that Tyrion demanded of him, the dwarf couldn’t help but like the man. He was refreshingly honest in a world that was all too based in lies.

He pushed himself away from the desk and hopped down to the floor, grabbing his Hand brooch and pinning it to himself. He had the distinct feeling that it was all that stood between him and the whims of his juvenile nephew, so he was loathe to go anywhere without it. He walked (‘waddled’, he had heard his sister laugh maliciously when she thought he could not hear) through the door and down the corridor with the practised confidence of a man that knew he had little to be confident about. He smiled politely at the courtiers, winked at the chambermaids and jested with the knights but, inside, his mind was a flurry of worries and, as he stopped to look down into one of the courtyards, one of his primary concerns revealed itself.

It was but a small thing, a small disquiet that caught the Imp’s eye. He doubted that anyone at court would notice, even the Spider and certainly not Joffrey, but it was relevant enough to Tyrion’s interests that it had made itself instantly apparent. The flame haired Stark girl sat by a fountain, dappled by sunlight as she embroidered quietly, catching a rare moment in which she could be alone. For all intents and purposes, she could almost be mistaken for happy as she performed her task but, if one cared to look closer, distraction was evident in her eyes.

Tyrion worried about her. Though he did not expect her to know or trust the fact, he was not a typical Lannister and he did not have ill designs for her. She was only a girl and she had no responsibility for the actions of the King in the North, yet she was treated as a common criminal. Beyond that, she was treated a pawn, a bargaining chip rather than a human being and he knew that Joffrey wanted nothing more than to see her suffer.

And now that Renly’s claim to the throne had been cut short?

Word had reached them not two days ago that Renly’s war had ended, with whispers and questions surrounding the whole affair. Tyrion had heard everything, from blame being attributed to the Maid of Tarth to death by shadow-walker and the Imp didn’t know what to believe. All he knew was that at least one pretender to the throne had been eradicated and, frankly, he was glad that he didn’t have to join in this time. He had had enough of the frontline for one lifetime, even if he had only been awake for the first ten minutes of it.

He felt some regret for the fate of Renly, however. They had been together at court enough times for a certain degree of camaraderie to form between them, for they had similar interests in wine and vulgarity and fucking, even if Renly’s proclivities did lie in a more masculine location. He had shared a similar distaste for the politics of the crown and had simply used his privileges to enjoy his life, something that Tyrion could both respect and empathise with. His death was a sad one, in spite of it advancing the Lannister advantage exponentially, though he would never voice that opinion to the court.

However, his death had called much into question about how they should proceed, and one of the topics of debate was the fate of Sansa Stark. With Renly’s alliances to House Tyrell now free, it was suggested to some that perhaps it would make more sense to tempt his young, widowed bride to the title of Queen. Tyrion dreaded to think of where that would leave the Stark girl, or to whom she would be left. He sighed as he watched her sewing prettily, with barely a sense of the danger that she was in. _If_ _only_ , he pondered morosely, _her brother could see the damage this war was doing to the ones he loves_.

A movement across the courtyard caught the Imp’s attention, shaking him from his thoughts. A figure had begun to stride through the square but stopped in the shadows when he noticed the figure by the fountain. Sansa had not noticed him and he did not make himself known; he simply hung back in the darkness and watched her. It was almost a peaceful scene, chaste in its way, but when Tyrion squinted to work out who the man was, his heart hardened.

The King’s dog, aggressive and brutish, watched the delicate little thing as she contentedly set about her activities and he said not a word, preferring instead to admire her from a distance. Tyrion’s jaw clenched. He could probably overlook it if it was not for the fact that this was hardly the first time that he had noticed Sandor Clegane’s fascination with his King’s betrothed.

At meals and feasts, the Hound’s eyes were rarely anywhere else and, even at the first dinner that he had attended with the Stark girl after arriving in King’s Landing, Tyrion had noticed this attention. It had been an uncomfortable dinner for all of them, as Tyrion was forced to recount the intimate details of his victory over Robb Stark’s forces, but he would wager that, under the heavy, brooding stare of the Hound, it had been a much more unpleasant experience for Sansa.

He had also noticed some uncommon compassion directed towards her, compassion that betrayed his fondness. Comments made in court, simple words that stayed the King’s hand or gentled his rage. It might have been to the little wolf’s benefit, but he did not trust the Hound’s motivation for a moment. He had never known Clegane to do a single thing that did not profit him in some way and he had the feeling that his intentions were less than noble, whether he was the King’s dog or not. The Hound was known for his drinking and his whoring, and Petyr Baelish was not above being so indelicate as to whisper gossip about the state in which he left some of those poor, naive girls who were but mere wisps compared to his hulking stature. It was all the Imp could picture when he saw the hungry look in Clegane’s eyes and it twisted a knot in his stomach.

Tyrion would not see Sansa Stark at the brutal hands of the Hound – not for any money, wine or whore in the world.

Clegane shifted in his armour which startled the girl and she turned to see him watching her from the shadows. They stared at one another for a moment, like two wild animals caught at an impasse, one ready to pounce and the other prepared to flee. It wasn’t until the Hound moved into the sunlight that Sansa put down her embroidery and rose from her seat. Tyrion strained to hear her butter soft voice as it sang out across the silence.

“Good day, my lord.”

An attempt at a wry, charming smile appeared on the Hound’s ravaged face though it served only to make him look more like a starving dog, hungry and vicious.

“Little Bird.”

The silence descended once more, uncomfortable this time, now that Sansa actually knew that Clegane was there. Tyrion could feel the tension and his heart bled for the girl – she must have worked out by now that the Hound admired her and to know that one so bloodthirsty and disfigured as he was had pictured her in his bed must have made her sick to her stomach. Moments passed without a word being uttered and even the lyrical, twinkling sound of the fountain’s trickling water was almost offensive in the heavy atmosphere.

After what felt like an agonising lifetime, the Hound finally made to move towards Sansa, his hand twitching to reach out to her. It seemed that that was motivation enough to move the eldest Stark girl into action and she finally took a step back, her skirts lifted delicately into her hands to show every intention of retreating.

“Please excuse me, my Lord.”

She turned on her heels and raced away, her light footsteps just barely hitting the ground. The Hound stayed still for a time, as if basking in the afterglow of her presence. Not ten words had passed between them and yet Clegane still seemed to soak it in. For just a fleeting heartbeat, Tyrion almost felt something akin to sympathy for the wretched man. He had no great love for the Hound and he did not make a secret of that. He couldn’t abide a man who had no thoughts of his own and stuck plainly to orders, and so the two of them were put instantly at odds with one another. But, though he didn’t like to admit it, they did share certain similarities. Both were crippled by their looks, something that they had no power to change, and it had left them both alone in the world.

Tyrion liked to think that, in another life, he might have been handsome. He had the thick, blond Lannister hair and the fortunate genetics that had bred Jaime and Cersei. Even as a dwarf, he had a cock that made women scream and he certainly had the wit and charm to entice. Looking at the Hound from his more forgiving side, the Imp considered that the same could probably be said of him too. The side of his face that had evaded the Mountain’s wrath was strong and masculine, with dark eyes and a sturdy bone structure. He could have almost been called striking, until he turned his face and revealed the angry explosion of scar tissue.

How many times had whores closed their eyes when he fucked them? Indeed, had he ever known a woman whose purse had not grown fatter from their liaison? Tyrion suspected not, though it was hardly something for which he could judge him. But after a lifetime of repelling affection wherever he turned, to set his sights upon Sansa Stark was a folly. It was so pathetic that Tyrion almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity. The mere idea of the Hound trying to seduce the delicate and highborn Stark girl was ridiculous and, if Clegane ever thought that she could see past his scars and his past, he was more naive than any green boy seeing tits for the first time.

In the courtyard, the Hound finally moved, having spotted something where Sansa had been daintily perched. The tumble of material that she had been embroidering had been abandoned in her hurry to escape and he reached out a hand to it, almost shyly. When he grasped it in his large hands, he rubbed it absently between two fingers, feeling the softness that had been held by the flame haired beauty. To Tyrion’s disgust, he raised it to his face and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and clutching it tightly, before he tucked it clandestinely inside his armour. After casting his eyes about the courtyard, no doubt suspecting that Varys might have a ‘little bird’ of his own lurking about, he checked himself and then drew back, away once more from the Hand of the King’s judgemental eyes.

Tyrion leaned against the wall and rubbed the rough stubble on his cheek. _I think_ , he sighed, _it’s worse than I thought._ For a moment, he longed to be away from office, away from the Red Keep, away from King’s Landing. He longed to be drunk somewhere, with his head buried between the legs of Shae, his prostitute turned lover. He longed for a life where it did not fall to him to confront the Hound over matters of the heart (or the trousers, perhaps).

But he steeled his resolve. Sansa had no one to look out for her in King’s Landing any more. Her father was dead, her sister missing, her lady mother rambling over the countryside and her brothers scattered to the four corners of Westeros.  She was all alone in a den of lions. She didn’t have a single person on her side and Tyrion’s honour, what little he had or valued, would not allow him to let her deal with the Hound by herself.

He knew what he had to do.

He waited until dusk began to sweep over the Red Keep. He could guess what night time activities the Hound might engage him, and so he preceded him at the tavern, waiting for him with a pint of ale. He had tried to be inconspicuous, so that this little intervention did not attract undue attention, but it was not difficult to spot a dwarf in a crowd. Sitting and drinking as politely as he knew how, he hoped that his strange appearance at the inn would soon become boring enough to lose interest.

He waited for nearly an hour and was on his third pint when he heard the inn’s chatter falter to a hush for a brief instant. It was the quiet, unsettled disturbance that followed the Hound wherever he went and, without even looking, Tyrion knew that he had arrived. He turned to see the tall, broad man in the doorway, pausing for a moment to glare sullenly at those who were giving him attention. He then moved darkly toward the bar, pushing through people with ease and without regard for manners, before snarling his order to the barman. Tyrion moved smoothly over to him with a charming smile on his face and declared his presence.

“Good evening Dog! What a coincidence that I should find you here, in a tavern of all places!”

The Hound gave him a sidelong glance as he began to drain his tankard, scrutinising the unfaltering grin on the Imp’s grotesque face and the twinkle in his eyes. An uncomfortable amount of time passed before the Hound finally put down his mug of ale and looked down fully at the little man.

“Imp. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The Hound’s raspy growl indicated to Tyrion that ‘pleasure’ was something of an overstatement.

“Clegane, you wound me,” the Imp cried in mock insult, “And here was me thinking how wonderful it would be to drink again with one of my oldest companions.”

“Really?” the Hound sneered, “And since when have the Lords drunk with the dogs?”

“Since man first walked this earth, Clegane,” Tyrion countered quickly, “Dogs have been stalwartly loyal to their masters since men could first order them to ‘sit’.”

The Hound fixed Tyrion with a hard, aggressive glare. It was a thinly veiled insult and both of them recognised that fact. The air had grown frostier, if that was possible, and the Imp soon turned away from his burning gaze to busy himself with his drink. He didn’t need Clegane angry for this discussion – indeed, it would probably only serve to make things more difficult.

“Aye, is that so?” the Hound finally responded.

“It is. Hasn’t that always been your way, Clegane? Loyalty and servitude above all else?”

“A dog will die for you, but never lie to you,” he responded hollowly, as if recalling and repeating words that he had used before.

“Then what, may I ask,” Tyrion responded cryptically, “could have possibly made you rethink your ethos?”

This caught the Hound’s attention. He put down his mug and shifted his body to face the dwarf who was casually tracing shapes in spilled ale on the bar countertop.

“And what is that supposed to mean, Imp?”

“Can you not think of a single indiscretion to which I might be alluding? Not one, in your years of servitude?”

“I cannot.”

“I thought a dog would never lie?”

The Hound had had enough. After rolling his eyes scathingly, he drained his mug empty and slammed it on the bar, the heavy thud attracting the startled glances of some of the patrons. He turned fiercely to the Imp and growled in anger:

“I tire of your games. I’ve a whore waiting and I’d rather hear her ceaseless prattle over yours, even if I do have to pay for it.”

He turned away and began to push his way back towards the entrance, his temper radiating from him. He was nearly at the door when Tyrion’s voice rang out clearly across the crowd.

“Redhead, is she?”

The King’s sworn shield stopped with his hand on the door. He paused for a moment before turning round dangerously and glaring at the Imp with eyes that could pierce armour. Slowly, he stalked back to the bar and took a seat.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he hissed aggressively, but quietly, his eyes darting about the tavern.

“I took the liberty of speaking to Baelish about some of his ladies. Grease his tongue with some liquor and you’d be amazed at some of the secrets that come tumbling out.”

“What of it?”

“He gave me names, so I went to investigate.” He lowered his voice at this. ”Redheads, they were. All pretty young redheads, every single one of them.”

“What relevance does that have to anything?”

“Did you imagine that it was her favour?” Tyrion shot back, his voice suddenly bitter, his patience waning, “The embroidery that you stole, did you pretend, for a second, that it was a gift? Given to you for luck or bravery or love? As if an innocent creature like her could ever feel anything but fear and revulsion for a man like you?”

The Hound’s face remained still but his eyes became cold. He turned to the barman and demanded a drink, something a little stronger this time, and Tyrion watched him closely, never once taking his eyes from the man. After tossing back his drink, Clegane rasped out quietly:

“You’re making dangerous accusations, Imp.”

“And you are making dangerous advances upon the King’s betrothed, Dog.”

“She has no one!” The Hound began to snarl, before checking his temper and lowering his voice, “she has _no one_ in King’s Landing. Am I to be vilified for keeping an eye on the Little Bird’s safety?”

“You expect me to believe that your intentions are chaste, Clegane?”

There was no reply, just a mirthless, empty chuckle as he shook his head wryly.

“You and I have known each other for much of our lives,” Tyrion continued, “I can hardly believe that you would do something so foolish.”

“I have done nothing,” the Hound muttered hoarsely, “but remind her of her place. She knows that she will find no friend in me.”

“She needs no friend like you, dog. There is nothing that you could offer that poor, sweet girl but pain.”

“And yet you would see her married to Joff?” Clegane’s eyes were dark and cold as he considered this thought.

“If I have my way, no. I would see the little wolf returned to her pack.”

“But until then? You would see her helpless at the hands of Joff, or Blount or Trant or even that fucking Oakheart?”

“Or you?”

“I have never laid a finger on that girl,” the Hound growled, his voice low and furious, “Unlike the other _sers_.”

He spoke the word ‘ser’ like poison. His disdain was clear and his anger and frustration had mounted. He slammed his fist down hard on the bar and barked another order to the skittish innkeeper who hastily produced a questionably clean mug which the Hound instantly set upon. He drank deeply before muttering blackly:

“Boros, Meryn? They rejoice in her blood and her bruises. And Oakheart? Turn your back for a moment and he’ll have her up against the wall before you can blink. But you come and make your pathetic allegations against me? Go on Imp. Name my fucking crimes.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to reply but found himself at a loss for words. It was true – he had never beaten the Stark girl or even shown her anything more than the usual brand of cruelty with which he gifted everybody else. There was no crime for which Clegane could be punished and, god damn it, the Hound fucking knew it. The Hand drained the last of his mug before admitting in annoyance:

“I cannot. Beyond your extensive history of atrocities, I cannot pin any crime on you.”

The Hound gave a sneering half laugh at the Imp’s expense and turned back to the bar, satisfied by the outcome of the conversation.

“Well then, Imp, if we are entirely done...?”

“We are,” Tyrion replied as he made to walk away from him in defeat, “but mark me Clegane. You may believe Varys to have the eyes and ears across Westeros, but if you so much as breathe too close to her, I will have your cock cut off before she even has a chance to scream.”

“Noted,” the Hound responded casually, lifting his glass to the imp without even looking to see him leave.

Tyrion made his way from the inn, decidedly unhappy with the outcome. There was a wrenched feeling in his gut, a feeling that told him that the worst was still to come. There was little more he could do however and so, with a falsely cheerful song on his lips and a lead weight on his heart, he made his way back to the Red Keep, back to his bed, and back to Shae, where he could bury his cock with ecstasy and forget the sorry business of politics, if only for a moment.


	7. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still stinging from his confrontation with the Imp, Sandor stumbles across Sansa in a remote part of the castle.

Already, days had passed since the irritating exchange with the Imp, but Sandor was still fuming from it. The presumption was overwhelming, and Lannister’s implication that he could possibly know a single thought that ran through his mind was laughable. But the indignity of it! To be told what he could and couldn’t do by the biggest (or smallest, depending how you approached it) joke in the King’s family had irked Sandor to such a degree that he almost wanted to go and fuck the Stark girl just to make a point. He didn’t like to feel that he was being watched or monitored; he had served the family for long enough and laid down his life more than enough times to have earned their trust, and the idea that his actions were to be judged trivialised his sacrifices.

He had drunk too much that night, when Tyrion Lannister had left, and he had returned home with blood on his armour and fire in his heart. His anger had mounted to breaking point and, when a fool peasant thought to try his luck against the Hound, hoping perhaps for the money in his purse or the benefit of infamy that taking him down would earn him, he had shown him no mercy. It had been the fault of the idiot man, not him. If a mouse will fight a Hound, he cannot expect to be the victor.

And yet, there was some part of him that felt a modicum of guilt, somewhere inside. He had never really experienced it before, the niggling feeling of responsibility that was pervading his thoughts, but there it was. Something about Lannister’s accusation just didn’t sit right with him and left him somehow uncomfortable in his own skin.

‘ _There is nothing that you can offer that poor, sweet_ girl,” the Imp had told him, “ _but pain._ ”

Maybe he was right. Perhaps Sandor could only ever dream of bringing destruction to something so beautiful. If his past was anything to go by, then that was true. But the way that the Little Bird looked at him with those big, searching blue eyes, the way that she looked upon him without judgement, as though he was some bloody ser, made him find himself itching to do the right thing, for her if no one else. It was lust, he would tell himself at night as he fucked his hand and pictured her, lust for her supple mouth and her virgin cunt. But if that was true, then why did the Imp’s words sting? And why couldn’t he stop agonising over the look on her face as she fled from him so quickly after exchanging her courtesies in the courtyard?

He knew that she was scared of him now, terrified that his anger would erupt at her once again, like it had done so many times before. He was always trying to push her away and establish his distance but, now that she seemed to have finally learned her lesson, he felt the absence of her shy, smiling glances and softly spoken songs that he had so berated her for singing. He knew that he had gone too far when he discovered her hiding in the baths, but his anger was impossible to still sometimes. He just couldn’t quiet the rage that had flared from his sheer humiliation. That she had been forced to witness his ugly, scarred body was too much for him to accept and, no matter what she had said to diffuse the situation, he was sure that she was repulsed and horrified by what she had seen. The Imp was right. An innocent creature like her would never be able to take a monster like him and see anything but the hatred and anger in his heart.

Sandor sighed in irritation. Standing watch outside the King’s door was dull and gave him too much time to wallow in his thoughts. His fingers twitched irritably for something to do and, while he would normally satisfy that itch by taking his sword and going to the training yard, this time he unravelled something that had been tucked safely inside his armour. It was a neatly folded piece of material, elegantly embroidered: the sewing that Sansa had been busying herself with. It was small and soft, only a scrap on which to _practice_ her needlework, but she had embellished it so finely that it would have felt like a waste to throw it away, which was what Sandor was sure she would do with it when she was finished. It hardly seemed worthwhile to return it to her and so he had kept it.

He turned it over carefully between his gauntleted fingers. It was brightly and delicately embroidered with a border of vines, and bright yellow and rich black flowers, shot through with the tiniest little grey birds. It was fine and so very fragile that only tiny, nimble hands would have ever hoped to have had the skill to do something like it. His mother was dead and his sister too, and so Sandor had never had anyone around who would have cared to make anything so precious for him. He thought it only fair that he should keep this one; he knew he would never have a lover who held him dearly enough to create for him such beautiful things.

He tucked it away again quickly after just a moment, ensuring that no one could see his stolen treasure. Both he and the Imp had been careful to avoid using the Little Bird’s name during their heated exchange, but Sandor had learnt never to underestimate the capabilities of the Spider. Though his conduct was faultless and he had done nothing wrong (a fact of which he had to keep reminding himself) he knew that Varys could spin a web of blackmail from nothing more than a whisper. He could handle Tyrion’s jumped up threats, but the last thing he needed was the eunuch feeling like he held something over him.

He could feel his frustration building. He tired of watching the door while Joffrey napped away his Kingly duties, so decided to feign interest in a perimeter patrol, calling over a lesser guard to take his post. He didn’t really care where his wander took him, so long as he could distract himself. He was annoyed by his own thoughts and irritated by his inability to ignore them, being unused to having something prey so heavily on his mind.

He absently loomed through the halls, not really paying attention to where he was going. After a time, the people ambling the corridors began to thin out until he found himself alone altogether, stalking the empty, remote corners of the castle that tended only to be used for clandestine affairs and secret, traitorous meetings. It was quiet and peaceful, with his heavy, tinny footsteps echoing metallically, though the total absence of people was almost unsettling.

Emptiness in the Red Keep rarely actually meant being alone and, even in empty halls, one could always feel eyes watching. After the Imp’s remarks a few nights before, Sandor had never felt this so keenly.

He turned the corner to go down to the lower belly of the castle and walk among the dragon skulls in the cellars. There was something fascinating about the great, terrible beasts, fascinating and also humbling. Somehow, walking amongst them seemed to make everything seem so much smaller and pathetic. It  was actually very cathartic, especially as most people were too afraid to actually go down there.

As he walked inattentively around the corner, however, he stopped dead in his tracks. In the near distance, sitting peacefully at the top of the stairs, Sansa Stark stretched her arms out to a wary cat whose nose was almost inquisitively touching her fingertips. Whether she had heard his footsteps approaching or whether she had simply sensed that she was no longer alone, he wasn’t sure, but she slowly retracted her hand and looked to him with her big, sad eyes. The cat pawed its way into her arms, regardless.

They were silent for a while, meeting one another’s eyes from a distance as a hollow lull descended. Slowly and gently, Sandor began to move toward her, glad that she seemed to be glued to her spot by the purring creature that was rubbing itself up against her jaw. He did not want her to retreat again.

“Little Bird,” he greeted her gruffly when he finally loomed over her.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she responded politely, finally tearing her eyes away from his and looking shyly at the cat in her arms.

“What are you doing, girl?”

“My sister was told to catch cats by her dancing master,” she explained quietly, “to help her become quicker and more nimble.”

 “Did she succeed?”

“No. They were always too quick for her.”

“And yet you seem to have met no trouble.”

“They always just come to me, my lord.”

He moved to the other side of the wide steps and sat down, leaning against the wall and watching her. Now that he no longer looked down at her from his great height, in what he was sure was probably quite a threatening way, her body became less tight and she relaxed in her seat.

“Why do you think that is, Little Bird?”

“She was always so aggressive,” she said sadly, recalling the behaviour of her younger sister, “always so fierce. It was something that she never seemed to understand… Cats are proud and beautiful but they are also shy and will run when they are afraid.”

She finally looked him in the eyes once more and he could see that there were tears in them, sad but determined.

“You cannot catch something beautiful with anger, my lord,” she continued, her voice soft but steeled, “I just don’t understand why people always turn first to anger.”

At that, Sandor had the humility to look guilty and turn his head away from hers. He had so many things he wanted to say, defensive and brash things, but her innocent words stilled his tongue. He was tired of fighting and hurting her, only to return home and wish that she belonged to him. It was an exhausting game to play. He was quiet for a moment before he met her eyes once more and found them searching his face for understanding. She genuinely wanted to know, he realised.

“It is easier,” he finally replied gruffly, the gentle words feeling alien on his tongue, “Easier to attack problems rather than accept the things we cannot change.”

“But,” she replied, her voice tiny as she carefully responded, “Isn’t that a terribly lonely way to live?”

At that, Sandor gave a short, hard laugh, one that made the cat in Sansa’s lap put its ears back irritably. Sometimes he allowed himself to forget her youth and her naivety, but it was never long until she said something that made it all too obvious.

“Do you believe, Little Bird, that I have anyone around me worth filling my life with?” He raised his eyebrow at her sardonically, prompting a response, but when she gave none, he continued. “I serve an idiot King whose life I am required to value more dearly than my own, alongside knights whose continued existence fill me with despair. I fuck whores who cannot even look me in the face and have a brother who would kill me without question or hesitation. It may well be a lonely life, but I fail to see an alternative.”

“You could always stop trying so hard to scare away those who only wish to offer you friendship.”

Sandor looked hard at her, searching for the joke that she was trying to play, but she met his eyes fiercely, as if sensing an impending victory over him. He gave a humourless laugh once more and asked snidely:

“Why Little Bird? Do you think it will help you to befriend me? Do you think I might lay down my life for you when the time comes if you show me a little kindness?”

“There you go again,” she commented, unimpressed, “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Her defiant response surprised him, and he frowned at her. She bravely raised her eyebrows at him, and took his speechlessness as an opportunity to say something that she was otherwise too afraid to voice.

“I am sorry about what happened in the baths, I truly am.” She cast her eyes away, her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I should have spoken out, but I was taken by surprise and unsure what to do. I never meant to offend you or embarrass you, or any of the other horrible conclusions that you jumped to.”

“Little Bird, I-”

“No, please, hear me out. This may be the only chance I get to have my say. I wanted to say it when I saw you in the courtyard, but I was too embarrassed, so I shall say it now. You have shown me such kindness, kindness for which you stubbornly refuse to take any credit or compliment. I expect nothing from you, but you cannot deny me my right to show gratitude for something that has made me feel safe and happy at times when I did not realise I could be afforded such luxuries. So please believe me when I say that I would never do anything to throw your kindness back in your face, and please do not think so little of me to expect that I might.”

Sandor stared at her for a moment, taking in her words. Could he recall a time when such things were spoken to him? He had been congratulated for his efforts in battle and given merit for his ability to kill in cold blood, but to be credited for kindness? It was not something that he could recall having ever experienced. He had slaughtered his first man at just twelve years old and had since been labelled a fighter, a murderer, a killer. Such men were not known for their capacity for goodness.

“I have a temper,” he finally confessed, “a temper that has saved my life countless times.”

Sansa nodded in interest, sensing that his usual guards were relaxing ever so slightly, so she picked up the cat in her arms and scooted a couple of feet closer to him. He eyed her warily but continued:

“I am… _unused_ to kindness myself. You say that you are not afforded safety and happiness? You grew up sheltered and guarded by two fierce wolves. Ned Stark would have died before he saw anything happen to you. In fact, he did. And Catelyn Stark has claws of her own. It requires a lot of nerve to take a Lannister hostage, and to do it all for her child? You may be alone now, but you weren’t always. You are vulnerable now because you never had to learn to protect youself. No, don’t look so affronted, it’s not an insult. It is just a fact.”

“I understand.”

“No, Little Bird, you don’t. And I hope you never do. It’s the reason that I… Well.”

He gave a sigh that was more of growl and rubbed his hand across his face irritably, but Sansa seemed to grasp his meaning. Gingerly, for she had been burned before and she was twice shy, she put a hand to his forearm and shuffled even closer on the step, closing the gap between them.

“Thank you,” she said warmly, “for everything you have done.”

“Why,” Sandor asked, sharply but not aggressively, “are you so eager to trust me?”

“I have no one in King’s Landing, my lord,” she explained, “And whilst you may be able to spend years with nobody, I cannot.”

She gazed wistfully down into the darkness at the bottom of the stairs and pulled her knees to her chest, before uttering words that Sandor could hardly believe.

“I think, perhaps, it is time that both of us found a friend.” Her eyes swept across to see the look on his face. “If that is acceptable to you?”

The cat that had been shifted from Sansa’s lap pawed at a buckle on Sandor’s armour before nuzzling into his hand. He looked down at it and reluctantly fondled its ears with his large fingers. He shook his head and laughed silently. It was time, he decided, to leave her be.

“If you are foolish enough to want a friend like me,” he said, standing up, “then who am I to deny you that pleasure?”

He met her eyes once more and, for what felt like the thousandth time, he was amazed at her ability to look upon his face without the merest hint of revulsion. Every hateful word that the Imp had threatened him with disappeared from his mind with just one kind smile, a smile that made her face light up and her eyes sparkle, a smile that was meant for him and no one else. The knee-jerk desire to meet her gentleness with vicious mistrust was still palpable, but he pushed it down into the back of his mind. He wouldn’t allow her to see the effect her warmth had on him, however – he could never afford to let her that close. He knew that if he did, if he ever let her breach that wall, he would take her and never let her go. He would not let himself mistake her sweetness for affection. Steeling himself once more, he turned away from her and withdrew back down the corridor, leaving her offer of friendship hanging on the air.

As he left, he heard a heavy sigh from behind him and a twisting sensation in his gut stopped his steps.  He considered the girl for a moment, considered the wolf-like, Stark bravery that it had taken to say what she had to him. He smiled a little to himself, though he would not let her see it. She deserved a reward for her mettle. He tossed a look over his shoulder and called into the dark corridor:

“Little Bird?” She snapped her head to look at him, her eyes expectant. “You didn’t deserve my anger. I apologise.”

The smile that appeared on her face was like one he had never seen, one that held within it every promise and opportunity that he had never had. He turned away from her before he found himself unable to and stalked away, his white cloak the last thing she could see before he disappeared.


	8. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turn about the gardens proves to be an unfortunate meeting place for Sansa.

The sunlight fell in dappled rays over the gardens of the Red Keep, and Sansa held her face up to let the warm beams fall on her soft, pale face. She held out her hands to feel the velvet soft flower petals swim through her fingers and closed her eyes in peace. No matter where she went in the castle, noise seemed to breed, whether it was the incessant chattering of ladies in waiting or the heavy, echoing silence of empty halls. Out here, however, the quiet birdsong, the rustling of the breeze through leaves and the distant sound of waves crashing against the fortifications was music to her ears.

The bright flowers had opened themselves out widely to feed off of the sun’s warmth and so the scent was sweet and fresh, floral perfume mingling with the sharp and unmistakable smell of the briny tumult in the Blackwater Bay. She stood at the stone wall that overlooked the horizon and watched the sun glitter over the waves. It was never so warm up here as it was in the rest of the Keep because of the fresh sea breeze, and the feeling was bracing and rejuvenating. The soft fingers of the wind pulled at her bright, coppery tendrils and tugged at the soft material of her dress and, for brief moments, she pictured herself falling blissfully, gliding over the sea and escaping to someplace that wanted her as much as she wanted it.

But after a time, she opened her sea blue eyes once more and smiled wistfully. It did her no good to dwell in daydreams, else her heart would break when she finally crashed back to reality.

She smoothed her skirts in a ladylike fashion and contemplatively thought about the softness of the fabric. Suddenly, she groaned in a temper, having been reminded of something that had made her frustration bubble over. ‘ _That darned_ _needlework!_ ’ she thought to herself in irritation. She had been so cross with herself when she had realised that she had left her embroidery behind, wishing that she hadn’t fled from it so childishly in her embarrassment. ‘ _It was supposed to be a gift_ ’, she lamented, ‘ _for the Hound_ ’.

It was supposed to be a peace offering, to show him that she meant him no harm. She had used the last of her fine silk threads, ones that had been gifted to her by her mother all the way back in Winterfell – there was no way she would be able to recreate the pretty design with the rough spun fabrics that her maids in King’s Landing sourced for her when she asked. She had taken such care over it too; she’d used her buttercup yellow and her obsidian black to create vines and flowers which reflected the colours of his house, and embellished it using the softest slate grey to give life to some tiny birds in colours to reflect House Stark. She smiled sadly to herself. Her plan had been to gift it to him as a favour – she couldn’t imagine that a woman had ever given him a favour before and the idea of being the first to do so filled her with a strange, unfamiliar kind of glee with which she was not typically acquainted. He deserved one, anyway, for the kind, brave acts that he had performed for her, even if he tried as hard as he could to reject recognition for these deeds. It was what her books and her tales had taught her – a lady should reward her knight with a favour.

As she stared out to sea, she laughed softly to herself. He would have sneered at her traditions and customs, she was sure of it, but it irked her to only be able to offer sweet words as rewards. When she was back in Winterfell, her family were able to offer much by way of gratitude to any that showed them just cause, as their name afforded them luxuries that she had taken for granted. Now, only able to offer pleasantries in exchange for acts of valour, she felt her manners being disgraced.

It seemed though, she recalled with a smile, that he needed no material token to make peace. They seemed to have reached an understanding, regardless or her pretty offerings. The pleasure that flittered within her when she remembered the success of her conversation with the Hound was indescribable. To know that she had someone like him to look over her and keep her safe was-

She stopped at that thought and shook her head, guilt filling her in an instant.

For a split second, she was disgusted with herself.  That she had allowed herself to think of him as a protector, even for a moment, made her furious with herself. It was that exact idea that she had promised herself she would never give into. He had looked out for her as a kindness, not a duty – indeed, it was a risk to his own neck that he had shown her such valour and she would never let herself expect it of him. When she thought of the angry look in his eyes when he had suggested that her motives for befriending him were not innocent, her heart felt wretched because, though it was rage that he had wanted her to see, she had looked beyond the fire and seen a deeper sadness than one she had ever known. She saw an ache from within him which she was sure was longing, though for what she did not know. But she began to understand why he was angry all of the time, and why he lashed out: the best way to avoid having your heart broken is to convince everyone around you that you don’t have one. Well, it wouldn’t work on her. She was sure of it – the Hound was lonely, lonelier than even herself, and if she could offer him even a thimble full of the kindness that he deserved, she would.

She started over again in her head, thinking back to their exchange.

The pleasure that flittered within her when she remembered the success of her conversation with the Hound was indescribable _because_ to know that she finally had someone to hold dear in a place so cold was the only thing that was now keeping her hopes alive.

She found a smile creeping across her mouth. She dreaded to picture the look on her sister’s face if she was ever to find out that she desired a friendship with the Hound. The smile stopped, though, as she pictured her little sister, with her big eyes and hard, serious face. Arya had her reasons to hate him, reasons that Sansa found hard to justify. He had killed Mycah, the butcher’s son and Arya’s close companion, in cold blood. It troubled her to think of it because she could not think of a single way to defend his behaviour. All Sansa knew was that, though he had performed questionable and bloody misdeeds, he seemed to soften when it came to her. Somehow, she knew that he would not hurt her. Surely, Arya would understand that?

She pushed the thought from her mind. There was no point thinking about it now. Her wild little sister, the sister that she had longed to be spirited away from her by the Seven a thousand times over, was gone, and Sansa was all alone. She wished that she had known then that she would be so lonely now… She might have appreciated the sweeter side that Arya possessed while she had the chance. She picked a flower from the vines that climbed the wall and threw it into the path of the gusty breeze, watching as the delicate little thing rode the wind, down towards the sea until she could no longer see it. Sansa knew that Arya was all right. She felt it in her blood. For now, she had to focus on making sure that the same could be said for her.

She turned away from the wall, chilly all of a sudden, preparing to head back inside, but found herself faced with a diminutive figure instead. The man bowed courteously at her from across the garden and she wordlessly curtseyed back.

“My Lady Sansa,” Tyrion Lannister called across to her, “I see you have come to enjoy the sunshine.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Tyrion,” she replied, casting her eyes to the floor, eager to escape, “I was actually just about to go back inside, so...”

“Come now, my Lady. You wouldn’t leave me to take a turn about the gardens by myself, would you?”

Sansa cursed her luck. If she had lingered just two minutes less, she could have avoided the uncomfortable social obligation. Politely, she shook her head and replied:

“No. Of course not.”

“Splendid!” Tyrion said with a smile, before approaching and offering her an arm that he had to hold nearly above his head for her to access it comfortably.

Sansa took it begrudgingly and they began to slowly meander the cobbled pathways between the flowers. She knew that the Lannister dwarf surely had designs for her company but, for the first few minutes, he offered her little by way of conversation beyond the occasional pleasantry about the weather. She almost felt herself relaxing a little bit, until he suddenly enquired:

“Lady Sansa, how much do you know of what is happening on the battlefield?”

It was a question whose answer was laden with pitfalls, and the eldest Stark swallowed thickly as she considered her answer carefully.

“I know that,” she finally replied, her voice tight, “the Lannister forces have bravely beaten back my traitor brother.”

“Yes, yes,” Tyrion grumbled irritably, “You can save all of that for my sister and nephew. I am not interested in making you speak ill of your family, my Lady. I want to see what you know of the other contenders for the Iron Throne. Have you heard much of Stannis and Renly?”

Sansa was confused. She had not anticipated a question about the Baratheons and suspected that, having spent years alongside King Robert in court, Lord Tyrion would know much more about them than she did. With that in mind, she began to recite what she could remember of her Septa’s lessons.

“Well, they are both Baratheons, King Robert’s brothers. Lord Stannis is the elder, and Lord Renly is the younger. Lord Stannis resides on Dragonstone and-“

Her recital was interrupted by the full bodied chuckle that erupted from the mouth of the Imp. Sansa was confused by his laughter and watched him with worry, unsure what else she could offer him by way of information.

“I’m sorry, my Lady,” he finally said through his mirth, “I’m afraid you rather misunderstood me.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t know what else I could tell you.”

“It’s all right. You have told me more than enough without even trying.” Sadly, his eyes lost their amusement in an instant and were suddenly hard and businesslike. “So, you have heard no news of Renly’s fate?”

“No, my Lord, I have not.”

“I see.”

Tyrion nodded as though she had confirmed something that he had already suspected. Taking her hand gently, he led her over to a little stone bench where she seated herself. He did not sit down, instead standing before her and pacing irritably.

“My Lady Sansa, you do not have much in the way of protection here in King’s Landing. There are not a great many threads that keep that pretty little head attached to its body.”

“Please, my Lord, I don’t know what you-”

“For now, Sansa, please just listen. I pray that his may help.”

He looked to her for assent, which she gave by way of a muted nod. Satisfied, he continued:

“You may not be able to fight, but that does not mean you are defenceless. Arm yourself with knowledge, my girl, and you will have the greatest weapon available. Look at Varys. Our Spider has no obvious merits to one who does not know his skills, but that man holds the entirety of Westeros in his web. And Petyr Baelish! His women make men sing and he has got an ear to every single door, listening for secrets. Even me,” he admitted, almost reluctantly, “Look at me. I am no fighter. But with enough knowledge, I can talk my way out of just about anything. You must do the same. Listen to the whispers and try to work out what they can do for you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how,” Sansa confessed despairingly.

“Well, let me give you your first whisper,” Tyrion offered secretively, “Just to get you started. Renly has been killed and he has left behind him a widow from the Tyrell family. Yes, I know, it’s very sad, but please focus on the information and not on your heart. Their army is one of the strongest and most extensive in Westeros. Now tell me, my Lady, what can you take from that piece of information?”

Sansa frowned and racked her brain. She had not been prepared for this sort of questioning and was rather taken aback. Her stomach flipped as she looked into Tyrion’s grotesque face; could she really trust him? He was a Lannister, an unmistakeable lion and yet... Sansa thought back. He had never treated her with anything but respect. Indeed, he was polite and jovial with her unfalteringly. But this conversation seemed altogether too much like conspiring and she was terrified of being implicated in a plot that she could barely even understand.

“I don’t know,” she whispered hoarsely, her eyes on the floor.

Tyrion sighed. It was clear that he was trying to avoid saying something outright, but there was evidently something he desperately wanted to tell her. He steeled his patience and replied:

“All right. Who wins in a war, my Lady?”

“The army with the best tactics.”

“A noble answer. I would expect nothing less from a Stark.”

Sansa couldn’t tell if she was being mocked, but the gentle look in the dwarf’s misshapen eyes told her that she was not. She chose to take it as a compliment; she could not see how nobility could ever be used as an insult anyway.

“Then who?”

“The army with the most fodder,” Tyrion replied grimly, “the army with the most able bodies to put between their enemy and their home.”

“So the King wants the Tyrell army.”

“Yes, my Lady, that’s right. He does. So...?” he prompted, trying to lead her to the answer.

“So the King must offer something to the Tyrells to secure their fealty,” Sansa continued, her brows furrowed in deep thought.

“Indeed. What did Renly have to offer?”

“Well,” she offered slowly, “he married Margaery Tyrell. He would have made her Queen of Westeros if he had taken the Iron Throne.”

She looked for concurrence from Tyrion and found him nodding encouragingly, as though there was just one last part of the puzzle that she had not quite managed to put together. She re-evaluated the information, trying to piece together just _why_ this information was relevant to her. She stayed far away from the politics of the war, involving herself only to damn her dearest brother’s name when Cersei or Joffrey desired it. Suddenly, she felt a cool trickle of fear. Lord Tyrion would not have approached her if this was something that he did not think she needed to know, something that could potentially be the difference between her continued survival or her impending end. She swallowed densely, though her throat felt dry and papery, scared to voice the horrid realisation that was beginning to dawn upon her.

“Margaery Tyrell and Joffr-”

“Sansa! And Uncle. What luck to find you both together.”

Both Sansa and the dwarf turned their head sharply at the sound of the damnable voice. Handsome and awful in the mottled sunlight, Joffrey smiled falsely at the two of them with his thin lips. Behind him, at a slight distance, the Hound hung back, a tall mass of darkness that contrasted sharply with the fresh colours of the foliage. Sansa couldn’t help but smile brightly when she saw him, a wide, honest smile that she failed to suppress. Fortunately, Joffrey took it as belonging to him. He sneered at what he perceived to be her snivelling devotion.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion greeted, with only the remotest hint of sarcasm.

“Uncle, leave me and my betrothed, won’t you? Who knows how much longer I will have to _enjoy_ her.”

There was something sinister about Joffrey’s tone which made her pray that Lord Tyrion would refuse to leave. He had malice in his eyes, though she couldn’t be sure what she had done to incur his ire. When she looked down at the dwarf, however, his focus seemed to be more closely directed at the Hound, whose stark presence seemed to bother him. Their stern expressions locked and it seemed, for a moment, that there was an unspoken conflict that settled between them. Finally, the Imp tore his gaze away and replied:

“Whatever your Grace wishes.”

He was not done though. Tyrion never could miss an opportunity to get under his nephew’s skin, and so he swept Sansa’s hand into his and elegantly pressed a kiss into the back on her hand. When he looked over though, it was not the fuming Joffrey that the Imp met eyes with but the Hound who was struggling not to bristle in irritation. ‘ _I suppose_ ,’ Sansa thought to herself, ‘ _that he is worried that Lord Tyrion might get me into trouble with Joffrey for allowing him such liberties’_. With that in mind, she pulled her hand away from his as soon as she was able whilst still remaining polite. It seemed to placate the Hound and so she was satisfied.

“Good day, my Lady,” Tyrion murmured before leaving, nodding his head at the three of them before shuffling away from them with his ungainly walk.

Joffrey watched him go before turning to Sansa and sniggering unkindly. She knew that he was mocking his uncle and desired for her to join him but she would not, casting a pleasant smile at him instead. If what the Imp had told her was true, her survival could well rest on being as pretty and sweet as possible; it made Joffrey much more malleable and affable when she was agreeable. She was determined to make herself seem as invaluable to him as she could without arousing his suspicion. By the end of it, he would be convinced of her loyalty and her love – she would ensure it.

“Come along Sansa – shall we take a stroll?”

If Sansa had known that she would take this many turns about the garden, she would have worn softer slippers. Still, she agreed with a smile and took the arm that he offered her gladly. They walked slowly, with Joffrey talking more to the Hound than to her. He would toss throwaway comments over his shoulder which the Hound would either grumble a reply to or ignore altogether. Joffrey seemed used to this though and Sansa thought that it suited him – he was not interested in a conversation partner anyway, just someone who would bear his prattling. After a time though, he seemed to remember Sansa’s existence and he said to her casually, though, as always, laced through with malice:

“What did my Uncle want with you anyway?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly know,” Sansa replied, playing the idiot – it was best when he thought her an idiot, though it turned her stomach to speak so stupidly. “He was talking about the Lannister army and explaining how marvellously your troops are fighting, but I didn’t understand much of it. I don’t understand a thing about battle.”

“No. I suppose a silly little girl wouldn’t.”

“I’m sure that a brave warrior like you could teach me much about the dangers of the battlefield,” she said sweetly, kicking herself for giving in to the desire to mock him, “Kings are seasoned in battle.”

He eyed her suspiciously but she continued simpering saccharinely with a breezy smile, praying that he did not rise to the provocation. He seemed to turn her comment over in his mind before deciding upon letting it go, this time. He simply made a non-committal noise of assent and carried on.

“My Uncle says a lot of stupid things, according to my mother. It would probably be best to ignore the things he says.” Here, his eyes turned sharp and his smile savage. “You wouldn’t want to be dragged into matters that you are too dim-witted to understand.”

“No,” Sansa replied softly, casting her eyes down in mock reverence at Joffrey’s superiority, “I’m afraid that I would be to foolish to understand important matters like these.”

They stopped their walk at the stony ledge that overlooked the Blackwater Bay. ‘ _How queer_ ’, she thought sadly, ‘ _that a place that brought me so much peace not half an hour ago could now be filled with such hatred_.’ Joffrey leaned casually against the stone wall, flicking little pebbles off of it so that they tumbled down into the water that crashed so far below. Sansa took the opportunity of his distraction to glance quickly at the Hound, to whom she offered a quick smile. He did not return it, though she could see from a tiny flicker of his eyes that he acknowledged it.

“Why don’t you come and have a look, Sansa?” Joffrey called over to her.

“As you wish, your Grace.”

She leaned daintily and carefully over the stone wall to look down at the waves crashing on the rocks. It looked cold, deep and unrelenting, and it made her skin prickle with goosebumps just to gaze at it. She felt the King’s hand rest on her lower back. Anyone passing might have been tricked into seeing it as a romantic gesture, but the pressure of it was heavy and threatening. She froze still as the hand travelled slowly up her spine and rested on her back of her neck. The pressure increased and she felt her head being pushed down, down over the edge of the wall until she was almost leaning entirely over it, her feet just tiptoes on the ground. Her breaths raced and tears filled her eyes as the King moved close to her ear and whispered:

“You wouldn’t want me to think that you and that wretched dwarf were talking about me, would you?”

“No, your Grace, no of course I wouldn’t, please!”

“Because I would be very upset to find out that you were whispering about me in secret. I thought you loved me Sansa?”

“I would never, please, you know I love you!”

Joffrey pushed harder still and Sansa felt her feet begin to leave the ground, her entire body using only the wall for support. If he pushed much further, she would go over altogether. She wanted to scream, but sheer, blind panic stopped the sound in her throat, allowing her to only let out soundless sobs. She was convinced that it was all over for her until she listened to a voice call out the most beautiful five syllables that she had ever heard.

“Joffrey. Enough now.”

The voice was fierce and strong and, after an agonising second more, the pressure was released as Joffrey pulled back his hands and huffed wordlessly at his Sworn Shield. Sansa collapsed to the ground, her hands scratched and bleeding from her grip on the rough hewn stone walls and her face streaked with tears. She was racked with silent weeping and she curled her legs to her chest protectively, flinching when Joffrey came closer and sneered bitterly:

“Remember, Sansa, that it is my favour alone which keeps you from meeting the same end as your father. It would do you well to remember that.”

“Yes, your Grace, I understand,” Sansa croaked out hoarsely, her eyes dead of colour or verve, “I am very grateful for the kindness you have shown me. You are right to remind me of how lucky I am.”

Joffrey’s wormy lips turned into a hateful smirk at her submissive acquiescence but, a second later, he was scowling again. He grabbed her by the forearm, ignoring the way that she flinched away from his touch, and he dragged her up to her feet.

“Stop your snivelling. You aren’t pretty when you snivel.”

“I’m sorry, your Grace.”

“I want you pretty again.”

She wiped the blood and the dirt from her hands on her pale dress, leaving dark red streaks on the skirt, before wiping her eyes of her tears and taking a few deep breaths. She dared a glance at the Hound, and found his body language tight, like a coiled spring. He was, for all intents and purposes, unreadable but she was sure that she could see just a hint of the fire beneath his carefully crafted nonchalance. Wiping her hands over her hair and face once more to neaten herself up, she faced Joffrey who smiled again.

“There. That’s better,” he sniggered, before asking mockingly, “Do you have no favour for my kindness?”

“A favour?” Sansa questioned, her heart sinking, “What could I possibly offer you, your Grace? Everything I have is also yours, always.”

“Then you will not object to a kiss.”

Sansa felt bile rise in her throat as she tried to refrain from physically balking at the idea. She swallowed her pride and moved to him before giving him a chaste, gentle kiss on the cheek, but as she began to pull away she felt a hand on the back of her head and, before she knew it, his horrid, thin lips had caught hers. She gave a muffled rejection but her displeasure was swallowed as he moved his mouth against hers, poking at her scrunched up pout with his tongue. Finally, he forced it past her lips and she tasted him, bitter and hot. She felt violated, like all she wanted to do was bite down hard against the wet intrusion, but she dared not show him resistance. Her eyes remained open and she looked over the King’s shoulder for something, anything to focus on while his vile mouth still defiled hers. She found herself meeting the eyes of the Hound, whose face finally showed a hint of his true feelings. What she saw there was anger, and his anger made Sansa feel strong. His dark eyes blazed and his jaw was tight and strained, but he held it in and held her gaze, as if he knew that it was all that was keeping her together.

Finally, Joffrey’s awful tongue retreated and Sansa began to take her mouth away, but he caught her bottom lip between his teeth hard.

“Remember,” he ground out, carefully maintaining his tight grasp on her lip, “That I own you. Do not allow yourself to forget it.”

He bit down harder and harder and it began to hurt sharply. Sansa cried out and began to struggle against him with her arms until she heard the clanking of armour and was jostled roughly as the Hound put his arm on the King’s shoulder and tugged him forcibly away from her. She instantly put a shaking hand to her lip and felt blood streaming from a blunt gash that he had left in her now swollen lip but, though she could taste the hot iron of her wound, it was still the taste of his mouth that burned her the most. The Hound’s grip on Joffrey’s should was vice like and, though the King tried to shake him off, he held fast, keeping him from tormenting Sansa any further.

Joffrey laughed at the pitiful sight that his bride-to-be made. She was bloodied, tear stricken and wretched, just how he believed that a Stark in King’s Landing should be. He finally shook himself free of the Hound and waved a hand in the air dispassionately.

“See her to her room, Dog,” he demanded coolly, “And get her a maid. I don’t want her looking like a mess in court.”

With that, he brushed past the two of them, satisfied that his various tortures had put the fear of the Seven into the young Stark. He never even turned back to look upon his handiwork, bored now that the Hound had decided to ruin his sport. After stopping to enjoy the sun for just a moment more, he disappeared down the red stone stairs and was gone, bringing the air of menace with him and leaving the birdsong to settle peacefully one more in the garden.

Sansa and the Hound did nothing for some moments, waiting until all was still and they were alone. With blood still dripping from her injured lip, she met his gaze and they both seemed to understand the need for the pause, feeling safe only once the tranquillity had returned, as though the disquiet had never even happened.

Only when the Hound’s eyes finally lowered from her own did she release the sob that was choked in her throat and run into his waiting arms.


	9. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sansa's trauma at the hands of the King, the Hound returns the Little Bird to her cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short update today I'm afraid - work has been CRAZY. I'm getting straight on with the next chapter, which was meant to be the second half of this chapter, so hopefully it won't be a big wait!

She was in his arms.

Small, broken and fragile, like a bird fallen from its nest. _She was in his arms_. Her small fingers grasped at scrunched handfuls of his white cloak with a fevered desperation and she pressed her face into his tarnished breastplate. She held herself against him so tightly that he could feel her shaking like a leaf as the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving her in shock and panic. He was unsure what to do, totally unused to being in charge of the emotional wellbeing of another, and so held his arms about her as lightly as he dared, barely touching. Her sobs made hardly a sound and he sighed sadly, closing his eyes and feeling the weight of her misery on his heart. ‘ _Even her tears are oppressed in this place_ ,’ he thought as he looked atop the fiery crown of hair that splayed out across his armour. He stood awkwardly for a time, letting her have her time to weep, until he heard her whisper shyly:

“Please, my Lord…”

“What is it, Little Bird?”

“Please just hold me.” She looked up at him finally, her eyes coloured with apprehension but brazen in her misery. “Please, I just want to erase his touch. I just want to forget that it was ever him that held me. Please, please, please…”

Her begs were just whispers but the desperation was palpable in every syllable. She closed her eyes once more, tears spilling from them, and pressed her face against him once more. He breathed out his apprehension. How could he deny her such an honest and innocent request? He wasn’t sure how his touch could bring her anything but fear, but if she was fool enough to want it, he would be fool enough to provide it. Carefully, as though she was made from the same porcelain that coloured her skin, he put his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest. The kind, awkward gesture made her tears fall harder and her own grip tighten. It was a vicious cycle: the more she cried, the tighter he wanted to hold her; the tighter he held her, the more she cried. They stood there for thousands of timeless seconds, until Sandor could not begin to guess how many moments had passed.

Everything was still about them but the birds and the waves, and he felt more at peace than he had for a long time. To shoulder the burden of another, no matter how selfishly, somehow seemed to alleviate the pressure of his own hatred, if even just for a moment. To feel Sansa’s shaking lessen and her tears dry up in the safety of his arms gave him a feeling of serenity like none he had ever known before. He closed his eyes hopelessly at that realisation; only _he_ could find a way to find pleasure in the pain of one so innocent.

Sansa’s tears had begun to stop and, after a time, they ceased altogether. They just stood, an angel in the arms of a demon. Sandor almost wanted to laugh at the sight they would have made if anyone had chanced upon them. He almost wished that Varys was watching with his judgemental eyes – anything for this scene to make its way back to the Imp. Sandor didn’t think he would mind dying for this: to have the chance to hold the Little Bird in his arms **_and_** stick his middle finger firmly in Tyrion Lannister’s face was a cause worth dying a hundred deaths for.

But he knew it couldn’t last.

He took his arms from the enveloping fold in which he had encompassed Sansa and placed his hands on her shoulders, before shaking her ever so gently. She made a ladylike noise of disapproval, ignoring his nagging, and so he did it again, a little more insistently. Bringing her away from the safety and comfort of his arms was like waking her from a deep sleep and, for just a second, he could picture how it would be to see her blinking in the morning sunlight from the warmth of his bed. He pushed the thought aside as quickly as he was able and became sterner in his efforts to stir her from his arms.

“Little Bird,” he said throatily, “Little Bird, I must return you to your cage.”

“Yes,” she replied sadly, her fingers finally beginning to release his cloak from her grasp, “I suppose you must.”

“It isn’t safe here,” he told her, feeling the inexplicable need to explain his termination of their intimacy.

She just nodded in assent, her arms dropping slowly to her side. He could see that she understood, but it didn’t detract from the look of sadness that coloured her face. He wanted to say something to return her warm smile to her mouth, or to suggest that he could embrace her again, but he knew that their moment had passed. He tucked the memory of it away, sure that he would revisit it again in his mind many times over. He knew that he would probably never get another chance to experience it. She wouldn’t have a reason to be so desperate a second time... He hoped, at least.

Sansa straightened her dress and wiped at the redness under her eyes, before turning her face up to his and attempting the ghost of a smile. It was shallow and empty, but the effort was there. For now, it would have to do. Sandor stood before her and sized her up, taking in the blood on her skirt and her hands and her mouth. It would be unwise for her to gambol about the castle, adorned by the evidence of her assault, especially with him in tow. Chambermaids would whisper and courtiers would gossip about the state of Ned’s girl. He hated to think of anyone believing that he had done this to her. He could do without anybody thinking that he had played some part in her misery.

“We’ll have to get you cleaned up when you’re back in your room,” he murmured, half to Sansa and half to himself, “But for now, you’ll have to keep your head down and walk close to me.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

She was so very sweet and willing, Sandor thought to himself. Her manners were so astoundingly accommodating, even in the face of what she had just endured. He nodded absently with a grunt and then turned on his heel to lead her away from the garden. He had gone only a few steps when Sansa called out:

“My Lord?”

He turned back to her, almost irritable in his desire to lead her away from prying eyes and return her to the safety of the room. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“I just wanted to say thank you; thank you for enduring me.” She blushed and looked down at her hands, a rare, shy smile on her face. “I’m afraid I rather needed that and, well, I haven’t been held in a very long time. What I mean is... Well, thank you.”

“Well,” Sandor replied gruffly after taking a moment to ingest her bashfulness, “Just... Follow close.”

She nodded and trotted faithfully to his heels. Finally, they left the sun streamed steps of the garden and made their way to the warm shadows of the castle. It was mercifully quiet and empty as they navigated their way through the halls but, in spite of this, Maegor’s Holdfast had never seemed so far away. The journey seemed to take a thousand steps for every usual one, with Sansa staring aggressively at her feet and barely daring to look up to even glance at the Hound. It was a quiet and subdued walk in which neither of them said a word.

When they finally reached the Holdfast, Sandor picked up his feet a little. He wanted to hurry. It would be busier here, and there was always a knight of the Kingsguard stationed at the bridge that stretched over the dry moat. He gritted his teeth in irritation when he saw from a distance that it was Arys Oakheart, of all people, who stood there now. He would not stand for that bastard thinking that Sandor had stooped as low as he did, to beat the poor creature when Joff demanded it. He scowled viciously. He wouldn’t piss on Oakheart if he was on fire; that _Ser_ would happily smash the wolf blood out of the Little Bird on the King’s command but then give her charm and charisma when he met her in the halls as though it had never happened. His duality sickened the Hound.

“Keep your head down Little Bird,” he muttered blackly without looking back at Sansa, “It’s Oakheart. He will want to engage you. You must try to avoid it.”

Sansa made an effort to stare harder at her feet and Sandor could feel her draw closer in behind him. They approached the bridge, walking with determination as though they would not be stopped, and at first it seemed like Oakheart had no interest in them. However, when they stepped out onto the wooden planks, a voice called out:

“Good day Lady Stark!”

Sandor let out a huff of contempt and stopped walking to let Sansa scurry to the other side of him, putting himself between them. Arys sauntered lazily up to the pair of them, a charming smile on his face. He was handsome and somewhat magnetic, and it made Sandor want to punch him to a bloody pulp and leave him counting his teeth off the floor.

“What do you want, Oakheart?”

“Nothing with you, _Ser_ ,” Arys replied, emphasising the title that he knew Sandor did not possess, “I wanted to bid the Lady good day. Is that acceptable to you?”

“It isn’t.”

“Why don’t you ask Lady Stark that herself? You’re not in charge of her comings and goings.”

Sandor took a step towards the handsome knight, towering over him with a sinister darkness. He leaned down a little, looking Arys straight in the eyes. Oakheart was entirely nonplussed, smiling broadly as though the world could not touch him. Sandor grumbled:

“As far as you are concerned, _Oakheart_ , I am. Leave the girl alone.”

“Where’s the harm, Clegane? Lighten up. Joffrey hardly cares if his plaything gets tossed about a bit, I warrant you tha-”

Sandor had the fastening of Arys’ cloak bunched in his hands within seconds, pulling the knight close to his terrible, scarred face. Arys finally had the good sense to look uncomfortable as the Hound bared his teeth in a rage, the knotted scar tissue betraying flashes of bone as he grimaced. His voice was low and throaty as he growled dangerously:

“Do you pretend to know the whims and wants of the King?”

“No, Clegane,” Arys ground out bitterly between his teeth.

“Mark me, _Ser_ , I will tear you apart if you try to touch a hair on Sansa Stark’s head. Do you understand me?”

“Let go of me, Hound!”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, fine!”

He was released instantly, the fracas happening with such speed that no disturbance was registered by anyone in the yard. Arys straightened his armour and his cloak, trying to regain a bit of his wounded pride. He scowled at Sandor, barely daring to even throw a glance in Sansa’s direction. Satisfied, the Hound turned away, placing his hand defensively at the small of Sansa’s back and guiding her across the bridge. He couldn’t be sure, but he was sure that he felt the girl relax into his hand, allowing him to steer her in a way that felt natural and easy. He was riled by Arys’ behaviour toward Sansa, though he refused to admit to the subconscious idea that it might be a sliver of jealousy that drove his hatred for the man. Yes, Arys was handsome and he had seen him speak jovially to Sansa. But it meant nothing; he still beat her when Joffrey asked, still laughed at her fate with Boros and Meryn. The Little Bird could not be swayed by a handsome face when it served as a mask for such cruelty. Sandor ignored his thoughts, deeming them low priority at this stage. They were in the Holdfast and swiftly approaching her room. All he had to do now was find her a chambermaid and then he could leave her to be comforted and soothed by someone more capable.

When they arrived at the chamber door, Sansa stood in front of the Hound and smiled up at him sweetly, though her eyes were apprehensive. Sandor gestured toward the door.

“Go in, Little Bird, and I will find you a lady to tend to you.”

He turned to walk away but found himself held back by a tiny, china doll hand that had placed itself in his, fingers gripping tightly. He looked down at it suspiciously and then up at Sansa, before pulling it away sharply and aggressively. He drew in close and growled:

“There are eyes all over this castle, girl! What game are you playing?”

“I’m sorry, that was stupid,” Sansa whispered back guiltily, “But, please, I don’t want a handmaiden. Please don’t get me one.”

“You’ve got to get yourself cleaned up. Clean those cuts.”

“Couldn’t...?”

“What, Little Bird? Spit it out.”

“Couldn’t you do it?”

Sandor raised an eyebrow questioningly, before looking down the hall. There was no one there, but he couldn’t be too careful in this place. He glanced back down at Sansa and commented eloquently:

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry, I just...” Her eyes were suddenly fiercely proud, reminding Sandor in a heartbeat that she was a wolf of the North. “I don’t want anyone else in King’s Landing looking at me with pity. I am sick of pity. Everybody just gives me pity or hate. Except you.”

She opened the door to her room and slowly backed into it, clearly hoping that, if she ventured, he would follow.  She kept her eyes on his, the pain in them beckoning him desperately, as she held the door open for him to join her. He stood his ground, his face unreadable. He had promised to stop searching for the tricks and the deceptions in her actions but when a beautiful young girl like her invited a creature like him into her room without a hint of either fear or guile, he struggled to believe in the purity of her intentions.

“Please?” she repeated, her eyes becoming more panicked the longer he stood out in the hall, “I just don’t want another stranger dabbing at my wounds.”

The Hound let out a weary sigh and rubbed scratchily at his coarse stubble. He knew he was going to go in. Of course he was. It wasn’t even a question. But he was at least going to take a moment to remember how easy his life was before Sansa Stark had taken the reins. With a cautious glance up and down the halls, he finally gave up stalling and followed her into the room, shutting the door behind him with an air of finality.


	10. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound cleans up the evidence of Sansa's encounter with Joffrey and comforts her.

As soon as her door was closed and she had secured the Hound in her room, Sansa tried to look busy, determined to treat the situation as nonchalantly as possible. As she fussed around, throwing silks into chests and jewellery into trinket boxes, she tried to dispel from her mind the scandalised look that her mother would have worn upon finding out that she had a man alone in her room, not to mention the Hound. It would have almost made her chuckle if she wasn’t feeling so wretched and emotionally drained. She dared a look over at her visitor and noted the bemused expression on his face before he called out in his deep, rumbling voice:

“All right Little Bird, stop fussing. Sit yourself down.”

He reached out to her and took her little shoulder in his huge hand, guiding her to the edge of the bed and pushing her down lightly. With her knees daintily drawn together and her ankles crossed, she poised herself with elegance and watched the Hound drag a chair noisily across stone slabs until it was directly in front of her. The chair was ornately carved, embellished with gold leaf and very dainty, to match the pretty little vanity table that it usually sat before. He eyed it with distaste before settling into it heavily, and Sansa wanted desperately to laugh at the picture of him, terrible and war torn, in her delicate little seat. It all seemed so funny, all of a sudden, the whole situation: her sham love for a boy King whose kiss she reviled; how she dined with royalty in a castle that still wore her father’s head on a pike; her growing fondness for a brutal killer who would mop up her blood whilst sat in a tiny chair made for a little girl. It all seemed so desperately, _desperately_ funny all of a sudden, that she couldn’t help but let a little peal of laughter ring out from her lips.

The Hound was surprised for a moment and then, upon watching her laugh grow in both volume and intensity, began surprisingly to quietly chuckle with her, which only made her laugh harder. Her amusement had turned from soft little giggles to full, body-wracking belly laughs and she clutched and hugged herself tightly. It seemed contagious and, for some moments, Sansa felt that they were no longer enemies who served under two separate Kings – in that stolen second, they were just two people sharing an absurd joke. It was liberating, but it hurt. After a minute, the Hound’s chuckling began to falter as he noticed the wetness that had started to collect at the corners of her eyes as she laughed and laughed. He reached out to touch her shoulder.

“Little Bird…?”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped between giggles, “It all just seemed so silly for a moment. Everything. It all just seemed so very, very silly...”

“It’s all right, girl, it’s all right. Get it out of your system. Here’s as good a place as any.”

She had bent into her legs, her forehead on her knees as her giggles turned to weeping, and the Hound’s hand moved from her shoulder to her back. Sansa knew that he was inexperienced in giving comfort, but as he moved his gauntleted hands in a rough, circular motion, his efforts were enough to assuage the tears. The very fact that he desired to still the tempest inside of her was more than she needed to feel better, she realised as she lifted her head to look into his face. When the tears had finally subsided, she rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm and let out a breathy sigh.

“Forgive me, my Lord. You must think that all I ever do is cry.”

“Well, that and get yourself in trouble.”

Sansa paused for a beat and searched the Hound’s face for impatience, but found instead a wry expression on his face. The realisation that the Hound had made a joke made her smile gratefully at him and he simply huffed out a short, almost silent laugh in response. It was strange, how natural it felt to be in the Hound’s company, when he had been so desperate only weeks before to rid himself of her. Yet here they were, sitting knee to knee in her ‘cage’, as he called it, a cage in which he was instrumental in keeping her. She had never seen him laugh before and, though his smile stretched his scars and his wounds across pockets of exposed bone in an action which would otherwise seem frightening, Sansa decided that she liked it very much. It was a deep and understated laugh, like that of someone who was scared of being caught: it was cut short quickly and almost businesslike in its curt nature, and she realised that it was probably not an action practiced very often. She endeavoured to grin even more broadly at it, to show him that it was welcome in her company. This time, her soft smile was returned, before he cleared his throat.

“Come on, girl. Let’s get these healed up. Have you any ointment or bandages?”

“Oh, yes. There’s ointment in a green bottle on the dresser and some scraps of material in the little brown sewing chest that we can use to bind.”

The Hound stood up from the little chair and went to her vanity table. It was scattered with girlish trinkets and oddities that he picked through, scattering perfume bottles and ornate hairpins in his search for the bottle of salve. Sansa watched him, slipping from her straight backed, elegant pose and planting her feet on the bed to draw her knees up to her chest. Finally, he found the little earthenware pot that he was looking for and brought it over to her, the sewing box in his other hand. When he had settled in front of her once more, he tossed them onto the bed and unbuckled his gauntlets. It made Sansa feel rather queer to see his hands, rough and calloused, and even queerer when he held one of them out to her expectantly. She stared dumbly at him for a moment until he said impatiently:

“Turn your palms up, let me see the cuts.”

She did so and he took her hands in his. They were rough but gentle, and he thumbed gently at the sore redness before reaching for the bottle of ointment and scooping a dollop of it onto her open palm. The feeling of cool relief spreading across her palms was instantaneous and the blazing soreness of the bloody grazes began to instantly wash away. Without saying a word, focused entirely on his task, the Hound began to massage the ointment in, slowly but firmly pushing the cream into the creases of her hands in a way that felt calming and therapeutic. Sansa breathed out a heavy sigh, surprised to find her eyes half lidded at the pleasant sensation. The Hound was so engrossed in his job that she found that she could let her eyes wander and she took the opportunity to look at his face without her usual fear of chastisement.

She never liked to look at him for long but not, as he seemed to believe, because she was repulsed by what she saw. She didn’t like to look too long because she knew that, if he caught her, he would instantly believe that her fascination with his face stemmed from the human proclivity to mock and marvel over the grotesque. That wasn’t it though, Sansa thought with a surreptitious shake of the head, that wasn’t it at all. Ever since she had dared herself to look into his eyes and had discovered the roiling pool of pain and heartache, she had been desperate to discover the parts of him that were still raw and human. Right now, with his guards down and his mind elsewhere, she found that his face had softened and he did not clench his jaw with aggression as usual. His eyes were focused on the task, rubbing the fresh, sharp smelling liniment into the raw, broken skin, and she could see now that those eyes were dark and stormy, and not because of the knitted frown that they were usually accompanied by but because they were actually the colour of a spilled inkwell on snow, grey and edged with steel. It was pleasant to be able to observe him at her leisure; when one happened upon him, the eyes were always instantly drawn to the scars and the burns that were inexpertly hidden by his hair. Given time, however, one could look at the other side, the side that hadn’t been ravaged by cruelty, and find that his face, though hardened and weathered, was not unpleasant. ‘ _Indeed,’_ Sansa considered to herself, feeling strangely giddy as she thought it, ‘ _One could almost be inclined to think it handsome_ ’.

It was not a beautiful face, and Sansa, even at her kindest, would not be able to argue such a thing. But it was certainly not the repulsive mess that the Hound seemed to think and it did have its own harsh handsomeness. He was no Sir Loras, but Sansa’s love for the Knight of Flowers’ precious, affected beauty had begun to wane over the past weeks, and she had decided that flawless perfection was actually rather dull in so many ways. She remembered, trying to suppress a blush, the imperfect, flawed and damaged body of the Hound that she had spied upon only a few weeks before and it still stirred the same strange feeling at the very core of her. It was the kind of handsomeness that she had never really considered before, an older and more mature sort of appeal which couldn’t be called beauty but had somehow a far deeper impact. Perhaps youthful beauty had been ruined for her, she wondered, thinking of her boy King, as her desire for it had only brought her pain. Perhaps growing up was about realising that what she had wanted was the wrong thing all along – maybe handsome princes were never in her destiny. At this moment, that thought did not bring her displeasure; the alternative to such a boy, however, was a man, and that thought filled her with more questions than she knew how to answer.

“You’re in your own world, Little Bird,” the Hound rasped deeply, shaking her from her thoughts.

“Oh! Sorry, I drifted off a bit. It felt nice on my hands.”

“Well, it’ll serve to stop any infection.”

 _‘A man’_ , Sansa pondered curiously, ‘ _A man who is brave. Loyal. Strong_ ’ _._ She watched as the Hound opened the little chest and rifled through her sewing box. His brow furrowed and he held up a few pieces of material that were crudely stitched.

‘These have all got sewing on them.”

“Will that be a problem?” Sansa asked, worried.

“No, not a problem. But they will be ruined.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she replied with a note of disgust, “They all went wrong anyway.”

Upon seeing his confusion, she took a piece from him and held it between pinched fingers, indicating at the ugly black and yellow embroidery.

“I was trying to recreate a design I had done, but they’ll only give me his horrid, thick thread when I ask. I had done a beautiful piece and used up all of my own thread that I brought with me from Winterfell. It was a gift from my mother and I was making something quite special with it... But I lost it. I tried to make it again but... Ugh! I can’t do a single thing with this. They may as well have asked me to do needlework with twine.”

The Hound’s face flashed with something odd which Sansa took to be impatience. She kicked herself mentally; of course he was impatient! He didn’t care about silly things like this. She had to be wary of becoming too comfortable in his presence or she would drive him away again with her childish problems. She sighed shortly and said:

“I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear about my silly embroidery. This material will be fine for bandages.”

He grunted a response but still looked uneasy as he ripped it into strips and tied it around her tiny hands. He looked up at her as he did this and Sansa had the distinct feeling that he was toying with the idea of saying something to her, but he seemed to think better of it and focused once more on his task. Finally, he tied a knot in the second bandage and released her hands. She was surprised to find herself disappointed that it was over. She had found a strange comfort in his gentleness.

“I’ll use the ointment for your lip at well. Be warned though, girl, it’ll probably sting like a bastard.”

Sansa smiled at his coarse turn of phrase. It was refreshing to be around someone who spoke frankly. Court in King’s Landing was a curious spectrum of behaviours, in that she was either cared for like royalty or she was treated like vermin. The vermin, she could handle – being falsely fawned over by those who felt nothing but scorn for her, however, was a much greater struggle. It was painfully lonely and even the rude language of the Hound made her feel like part of something real, as though they shared a camaraderie. She scooted closer to the edge of the bed and lifted her head to him, her mouth parted ever so slightly so that her swollen lip protruded. Having dabbed a strip of cloth in the ointment, the Hound came very close to her and took her face in one of his hands.

Carefully and gently, he dapped at her bloodied lip, swiping away the red stains of old blood and mollifying the flow of new. It did sting, he was right, but Sansa was distracted by something else. So close, she could see the way that he clearly combed his hair against the parting and she realised that he did it in an effort to disguise and mask the wreckage of his scars. She wanted, suddenly, to reach out and push the long hair away from his face, so that she could see him fully. She wondered why she was so keen, all of a sudden, to show him her acceptance, to display to him that she was not afraid. She supposed that she wanted to show him the same kindness that he was showing her.

She was roused from her thoughts by the feeling of his thumb slowly tracing the outline of her lower mouth. She looked down from his hair and saw that his eyes were glassy, as though his mind were elsewhere as he rubbed his thumb along her plump bottom lip. His expression made her swallow thickly, twisting something in the pit of her stomach. There was a small, quiet moment of stillness until her breath hitched, a small movement, but enough to stir the Hound who stopped his ministrations but did not move his hand from her face.

“There,” he said gruffly, “That should heal it up. It’ll be sore for a bit, but the wound is not as deep as the bleeding suggested.”

“Thank you,” she replied quietly, “It already feels much better.”

The stillness continued and Sansa met the Hound’s eyes. She was reminded of the bathhouse again; she felt the same need to disturb the silence but somehow, something stopped her. It was like the cats, she thought. The quiet was soothing for a wild animal, much as it was for the Hound. If she disturbed the peace, he would flee. She wanted enjoy his tranquillity for just a little while longer. As much as she was valuing it, however, The Hound seemed troubled, his expression grim. With a soft grumble, he finally pulled away from her.

“Pretty for the King again,” he said, his face blank.

It was a shard in her heart.

She looked at him sharply, her expression both wounded and angry. He had already looked away from her, wiping the ointment from his hands onto one of the spare bits of fabric and putting his gauntlets back on, but she pushed his knee firmly with the tips of her fingers to get him to turn back to her.

“No,” she stated determinedly, her eyes on his, “never for the King.”

“Remember, Little Bird-” the Hound began, but was cut off quickly by Sansa.

“No. Nothing I am or do will ever be for him. I’d swear that by my father’s Old Gods and my mother’s New.”

“You have to keep yourself safe, girl.”

“It will do me no good in the end anyway,” Sansa growled, “He will marry Margaery Tyrell and I will be useful no more!”

The Hound drew back and stood, knocking the tiny chair to the ground in his haste. He looked sharply to the door and then hissed back at her:

“Where did you hear that?”

“Whispers,” she replied, feeling suddenly petulant, “I heard it all in whispers.”

The Hound looked angry for a moment but that was quickly gone and replaced with worry. He sighed and ran his hand along his coarse stubble, an action that Sansa had seen a few times and recognised as an indicator of deep thought. He picked the chair up from its side and placed himself before her again.

“Don’t play with me Sansa,” he said carefully, the use of her name shaking the defiance from her in an instant, “We agreed that we were done with our games. Who told you that?”

“I don’t want to get them in trouble,” Sansa said hoarsely, wishing now that she had never said anything.

“No one will hear it from me, girl. Who was it?”

“He only told me so that I could protect myself...”

“Who?”

“Lord Tyrion.”

The Hound took in that information with practiced calmness, though Sansa could see through the still lake on top to the roiling ocean beneath. He frowned and looked down pensively. Sansa bit the nail on her little finger before asking in a tiny, mousey voice:

“Did you know?”

“... I did. Or, at least, I knew of Littlefinger’s suggestion. And I knew he had gone to meet with Renly’s widow. I didn’t realise that it had come this far.”

“What will become of me?”

“Nothing,” the Hound responded instantly, “Nothing will happen to you.”

The determination of his statement nearly undid Sansa and worrying her lip with her teeth was all she could do to stop her heart from bursting with everything she felt. There was fear and anger and panic, yes, but, beneath it all, there was a warm feeling that rushed through and made her reach out suddenly and put her hand in the Hound’s. Before he could react or pull it away, she squeezed it tightly so that he could feel it through his gloves.

“You are too good to me, all of the time,” she murmured, “If anything happened to you because of me, I would never forgive myself.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with the life of a dog,” he replied, his voice dry and husky, as if it was sticking in his throat.

“You’re no dog. You are nothing of the sort.”

She could feel his hand giving resistance, trying to pull away, but she would not allow it. She held it firmly and looked him straight in the face. _‘He thinks that I don’t know,_ ’ she thought sadly, ‘ _what it feels like to be reviled and hated. He thinks I don’t understand how frightening it is to have someone care for you when you have grown so used to abuse_ ’. The Hound grumbled as a matter of principle, ensuring that he did not seem too keen and willing to accept her affection, but he stopped trying to remove his hand from hers. He muttered blackly:

“You do not know the things that I am capable of, Little Bird. I’ll never be one of the knights from your stories. No maidens would cry for me.”

“You are no dog,” Sansa repeated firmly, “And you are not a knight either. Knights are cruel and fickle, and they bend the knee to monsters. You are brave and kind. And I…” She paused, her heart in her throat, cheeks suddenly tinged with pink, “… I would cry for you. Like I cried for my father, and my Septa and Lady. I’d cry till I ran out of tears.”

The Hound did not respond, and she could not tell whether he was touched or mistrustful at her admission. She was embarrassed in the silence that followed, and her hand grew increasingly hot in his; she felt as though she wished she could swallow the words back into her mouth, so that she didn’t have to watch as he scorned her care. After a time though, the Hound lowered his face from her gaze.

“No need for that now, girl,” he grumbled, though she could see the smile in his eyes, “No one’s dead yet.”

She smiled weakly, a gesture he returned before clearing his throat awkwardly and looking away. He stood up, finally releasing her hand from his and pulling at the cuffs of his gauntlets in a way that seemed to indicate that his time with her was up. Sansa watched him make to leave and was surprised at the sadness she felt. It had been nice to have someone to talk to with whom she felt comfortable. As he busied himself with escaping, he said to her:

“I must go now.”

“Yes. I understand,” she replied reasonably, though she was unable to mask the disappointment in her voice.

He looked down at her, sitting on the edge of the bed, knees up and curled into herself. Her big, honest blue eyes were turned up to him and she noticed the pause that he took to meet them. She wasn’t sure why he stopped until, in a moment of what seemed like weakness, he carefully reached out to her and thumbed gingerly at her plump bottom lip, guiding  her head up to his great height with a chuck of his knuckles.

“You’ll be safe, Little Bird. I swear it.”

As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he turned from her and was gone, leaving Sansa alone on her bed with wide eyes, a dropped jaw and a pounding heart. ‘ _I swear it_ ’, he had promised her. She absently lifted her hand to the cold emptiness that he had left at her mouth when he had taken his hand away from it. The man abhorred oaths, had never sworn into knighthood or made empty promises. And yet he would swear to her that she would be safe, that he would **_ensure_** her safety. The fingers at her lips slowly traced down her throat to her chest where she clutched at her heart. She felt like she was tingling all over her body and she could hear her heartbeat thumping erratically in her ears.

The pulse that pooled at the core of her body and seemed to set her body ablaze with sensation had returned. When it had happened before, it had felt strange and unfamiliar but she had grown to associate the oddly pleasurable and exciting feeling with _him_ , with the Hound. Even at the height of her infatuation with the handsome Ser Loras, she had never been so strongly affected by a man. And yet, now, she could feel the desire to once more have his hand caress her face with such gentleness again, to trace her mouth with his fingers…

No. She couldn’t be feeling this way. Not about the Hound. She was increasingly fond of him, of course she was, and always grateful to him, but this? She fell back and lay prostrate across her silken bedspread. Imagined sensations and images flashed unbidden across her mind when she closed her eyes: the feel of coarse hair on her fingertips; huge hands encompassing her neck; a ruin of a mouth pressed against her lips. She rolled over and buried her face in her pillows, before curling into a ball and breathing out words that seemed foreign and alien on her tongue:

“Sandor Clegane…”


	11. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Princess Myrcella being sent to Dorne, it falls to either Arys Oakheart or Sandor Clegane to escort her. The one who is chosen ends up extremely unhappy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - hi there! Just a wee warning, there is some potentially triggering stuff towards the end which is linked to sexual violence. It is nothing very major, I think, but I thought I would warn y'all just in case.

It was strange really, Sansa thought as her stomach twisted into a knot, strange how she could hate someone as much as she did Cersei Lannister, yet still find heart enough to pity her. She had already agreed to give up Joffrey to the wily arms of Margaery Tyrell – a fact that Sansa was still meant to be oblivious to – and now she was to send the sweet and darling young Princess Myrcella to be married to the son of a Dornish prince. She could see the hatred in the blonde woman’s cold eyes as Lord Tyrion revealed the arrangement to the court. She may not have worn an expression, her face emotionless, but Sansa could easily see clawed, menacing rage underneath Cersei’s practiced, cool exterior.

Sansa knew what it was like to lose those she loved. She wouldn’t wish that pain upon her greatest enemy. And worse, she could see now why her father had been so reluctant to arrange her marriage to Joffrey, all those months ago: it wasn’t just that Eddard Stark could sense the deep evil within the boy – it was also that releasing her to another was a loss that he simply couldn’t bear. She only wished that she had listened to his protests, wished that she hadn’t been so selfish and stubborn. Sometimes, in the heart of the night, when sleep eluded her, she hated herself for it. Her desire to be the beautiful queen of a sun strewn castle had clouded everything and now she was all alone.

‘ _Well_ ,’ she reflected with a small, secret smile, ‘ _not all alone_ ’. She glanced up at the Iron Throne where Joffrey languished with a face of thunder. It wasn’t that he was sad to be seeing his baby sister go, it was just his usual hateful expression. Looking beyond him, she searched out the man she wanted to catch a glimpse of. Beside the King, the Hound stood with a hand draped casually over the hilt of his sword. Sansa hadn’t seen him for nearly a week since he had sat with her in her room and helped clean her wounds, and she had been growing restless, eager to engage with him once more. The feelings that he had left her with last time had shocked and confused her, and she felt like she needed to spend time in his company again to really get a grip of the effect he was having on her. She was sure that the ticklish, butterfly feeling in her stomach couldn’t be ‘that’ – an emotion that she dared not even give name to at this point – but she couldn’t deny the palpable quickening of her heart the second she saw him standing beside the throne. She knew that it wasn’t anything more than gratitude that made her feel that way. She knew it. She was sure. And yet, somehow…

“Now of course, Your Grace,” the Imp said to the King, “We won’t be sending your sister off alone. I suggest that it might be an erudite decision to send at least one knight along with her that you can trust to defend and honour her. Perhaps a member of your Kingsguard.”

Sansa pricked her ears up as Lord Tyrion made mention of the Kingsguard. She looked from the Hound, whose expression was guarded and angry, all the way down the line of white cloaked knights who were looking shifty and nervous. She realised in that moment that this was not something that had been decided or planned upon – the members of the Kingsguard had had no idea up to this point that their position in King’s Landing was compromised. There was a shared tightness in the atmosphere of the court as all eyes suddenly fell upon the King.

“I’m to give up one of my guards?” Joffrey said with a scowl of childish disbelief.

“I am sure that, for the love of your sister, you would give them all up,” Tyrion replied in a voice that was, for all intents and purposes, pleasant enough, but was laced with a tone of heavily laden warning, “But seeing as we are trusting our new, entirely capable friends in Dorne with the wellbeing of our most lovely young princess, I’m sure that just one will suffice.”

“Ugh, fine. Well, who should I send?”

Sansa thought that the smile which Lord Tyrion wore in response to this question was entirely too well-used. It seemed like a crafty smile, the smile of a man with ulterior motives and, while she had absolutely no issue with anybody exploiting the King’s idiocy, there was something about this craftiness that sent a shiver down her spine. Something didn’t feel right, somehow.

“Might I suggest,” Tyrion’s answer finally came, “Someone who you know that you can trust. One who has served your house with unbending loyalty for years.”

‘ _He can’t be suggesting the Hound_ ,’ Sansa thought with cold worry running through her like icy water, ‘ _He cannot want to send the Hound to Dorne’_. And yet she was reminded of the hateful glares they had exchanged on that unpleasant day in the gardens, the evident animosity that had been shared between them. Why was the Imp so keen to be rid of her only friend in King’s Landing? And how, if it was settled, could she stop it from happening?

“Who?” Joffrey prompted, impatient with his uncle’s games.

“Perhaps the Hound?”

There was a sudden rush of noise, starting from an irritated outburst from Clegane himself and then travelling down the surprised gasps and whispers of courtiers and finishing with the approving calls from the rest of the Kingsguard. Sansa had never hated those ‘knights’ more than she did at that moment. They would cheer for the expulsion of the Hound simply to save their own fates, when not a single one of them was worth a damn compared to him. The Hound seemed unfazed by his comrades’ duplicity, but she bristled with irritation and was unable to disguise the disgust on her face, until she caught Tyrion looking at her in the crowd. She wiped the look from her face but she was sure that he had caught it.

“This is madness,” called a velvety, barbed voice which rung out across the crowd and silenced it instantly.

“How so, sweet sister?”

“If you think that my son,” Cersei replied, “Is going to send Sandor Clegane to Dorne, then you are mad. He has served the Lannisters for years. He needs to be here, in King’s Landing.”

“You said it yourself, he has served our family for years, since I was a boy. Don’t you want someone like that looking out for your darling daughter?”

“How dare you?” the Queen Regent hissed with anger unlike any that Sansa had ever seen from her before, a hopeless anger motivated by an inability to change what was happening, “Myrcella wouldn’t even be going if it wasn’t for…”

She had gripped the ornately carved arms of her seat with tight fingers, her knuckles turning white at the intensity of her grasp. She stopped herself from finishing, biting her tongue and relaxing back in her seat. Her eyes betrayed every ounce of hatred that she held for her deformed younger brother and Sansa tried to imagine what could ever make her look at Bran or Rickon or even Arya like that. She wondered what could have ever happened in their past to make them want to hurt each other so much. The thought of it made her unspeakably sad as her heart yearned for her silly, lovely younger brothers, all alone in Winterfell. To see the Lannister siblings hate each other with such blazing ferocity only made her want to see her own brothers more.

“Enough, mother,” Joffrey silenced Cersei, his tone irritable. He hated it when she referred to him as ‘son’ in court, feeling that it diminished his authority. He wanted to shut her up, shut his uncle up, and put the whole issue to rest. “I won’t send the Hound, uncle. I don’t want to. Myrcella can have one of the others. You can pick who, I really don’t care.”

“Why not Oakheart?” Sansa could hear the Hound suggest quietly to the King, “Your sister is very fond of him.”

Sansa couldn’t know for sure whether that was true or not. It was not an unreasonable thing to believe, for Arys Oakheart spoke beautifully to the women of the Red Keep and Myrcella was of an age that pretty words from handsome men could easily turn her head. She knew that she had taken a shine to Robb when the Lannisters had invaded – visited – Winterfell, so it would be no surprise if Arys had managed to win over the little princess. But Sansa knew that the Hound’s suggestion was not borne of a desire to see Myrcella safe and comfortable, but from a hatred of the handsome young knight. He may have narrowly dodged the swing of Lord Tyrion’s sword, but the Hound was not going to miss an opportunity to strike his own blow.

“Fine,” Joffrey agreed with a lazy flourish of his hand, “Send Oakheart. I’ve lost interest. We shall send Arys Oakheart with Myrcella to Dorne.”

A warm feeling of relief spread through Sansa and she relaxed her tightened muscles as her worry flooded out of her. She looked over at the knight in question and saw a mix of things – there was bitter rage directed at the Hound, dismay at his dismissal from King’s Landing, humiliation before the rest of the Kingsguard. She wanted to feel sorry for him, but couldn’t find the motivation. There was something about the Hound’s mistrust of him that coloured her judgement and, somehow, she was sure that it was a good thing that he was leaving. Tyrion looked equally put out, his plan having failed, but he hid his disappointment much more effectively than Oakheart.

With that settled, Joffrey called the court to a close and people began petering out of the throne room. Ser Arys stood dumbfounded for a moment and then stormed out of the hall, pushing his way moodily through his relieved comrades and then stomping away. Sansa understood his anger; he had sworn a lifelong oath to protect the crown, and had enjoyed the benefits of being at the right hand of the King. Would he still be Kinsguard in Dorne? Of course not. In a simple, thoughtless whim, Joffrey had lost him everything. Sansa was unmoved though; the alternative was losing the Hound and there was no way that she could have accepted that.

As the general throng of people began moving one way from the throne room, Sansa made a point of slipping out the other way. She wanted to take the opportunity to snatch a moment of peace before she was invariably set upon to attend to whatever duties might be pushed in her lap. The further she stayed away from people, the fewer chances there were for her to be dragged off by those in whom she had no interest, and so she skipped lightly down empty corridors, barely allowing her feet to touch the ground in her haste.

She wondered whether she could find peace in the Godswood at this time of the day. She desired to be out in the sunshine, bathed in the warmth of the afternoon light, but after her eventful visit to the gardens, she found herself reluctant to revisit there. But with the Old Gods generally shunned in the South, Sansa was sure that she would find welcome solitude in the beautiful acre of elms and black cottonwoods. She had peered into the woods from a distance but had never really wandered them before, feeling out of place in Godswoods because of her usual adherence to her mother’s faith of the Seven. Somehow, however, her heart seemed to lead her there today. The Godswood made her think so fondly of her father, reminded her of a common image of him knelt before the heart tree in Winterfell. Septs of the Seven might be beautiful and ornate, but there was a purity about the woods of the Old Gods that made her feel calm at the very core of her. She felt like, maybe, she would be better off turning to the Old Gods in these hard days.

She turned into a quiet corridor, taking the empty, scenic route to the walls of the Godswood. When she spotted a dark figure leaning against the wall, she gave a jump and a little squeak of surprise, but stopped when she realised with a smile who it was that was finding respite in the solitude of the clear halls. She raised her hand in greeting when the Hound looked over to her.

“Good day, my Lord.”

“Little Bird.”

“That was all rather exciting,” she commented with a smile as she approached him, her voice quiet and conspiratorial.

“Exciting is one word for it,” he replied, his expression black but his eyes betraying his gruff amusement.

“Did you know… You know…?”

“That the fucking Imp was going to try and shove me off to Dorne?”

Sansa nodded her response and the Hound huffed out his short, bitter laugh.

“No, girl, I didn’t. It was a bold move but a long shot. I never had anything to worry about.”

“I’m glad,” Sansa blurted out quickly, “I was concerned.”

The Hound gave her one of his rare half smiles and reached out a hand to awkwardly pat upon her head. She laughed as he scruffed her hair in a fond action which felt unpractised and new. She loved the feeling it gave her when she broke down his barriers, when she drew him out of the layers that he systematically built around himself. She couldn’t imagine him extending such an affectionate gesture to anyone else; in fact, she didn’t like to imagine it. There was a selfish part of her that enjoyed the secret bond they shared, and the knowledge that it was only afforded to her, and her alone, made her want to grin from ear to ear. She was curiously defensive of her relationship with him, and not just because of the danger it put them in – she couldn’t quite place the wolf-like protectiveness she felt, but somehow she was reminded of the way that her father used to react around Petyr Baelish when her mother was called into discussion. She always pictured her father baring his teeth at Littlefinger, and, in a way, she felt the same. She wanted to bare her teeth and growl at anyone who might compromise the strange friendship she had found with the Hound, be it Joffrey, Cersei, Lord Tyrion, Ser Arys, anyone. When he removed his hand from her hair, an action that he seemed to do as slowly as possible, his fingers trailing through locks of her fiery tresses as he went, she whispered to him:

“I was just going to have a little stroll around the Godswood. Would you care to join me? There won’t be anyone around, not at this time of day anyway.”

After a moment’s consideration, the Hound nodded his assent and they walked silently out of the hall and into the gentle, warm caress of dappled sunlight streaming through the elm leaves. They exchanged no words for some time, but Sansa didn’t mind. She knew the position that the strange lenience he showed her put him in, and she wanted to do nothing to make things harder for him. She didn’t want to push him too far either; whilst she may have felt that he was her only friend in this God forsaken place, she had to respect that he had much larger concerns than her friendship. They walked in silence through unruly rows of trees, maintaining a sensible, respectful distance from one another. If one were to chance upon them, it could almost seem as though they were two entirely separate entities, crossing paths utterly by chance in the expanse of the Godswood.

It was a truly lovely place. Under the trees, a warm aura of green light dappled everything and there was a gentle hum of birds and wind streaming through the leaves. Sansa could understand the appeal of the Old Gods of her father when one was surrounded by so much beauty and so much peace. The grass underfoot was plush and soft, and she almost wanted to drop to her knees and run her fingers through it, as though it were a rich green silk. She stopped herself, however, not wanting to appear childish before her companion. Instead, she held her hands out to him.

“Look,” she said, finally breaking their silence, satisfied that they were far enough away from civilisation, “My hands are completely healed!”

“They are,” was the reply as he inspected them, “As though it never happened.”

“Maybe. It certainly helps me to stop thinking about it when I don’t have to see it in the mirror every day. With your help, it healed so quickly that I’m not constantly reminded of it every time I look at my reflection. Thank you for that.”

“No need for thanks, girl.”

“Agree to disagree,” Sansa said with a smile, closing the topic and then immediately opening up a new one, “Tell me… Why did you want Ser Arys to go to Dorne instead?”

The Hound didn’t reply for some time, but Sansa didn’t think he was avoiding the question. She got the sense that he was simply searching for the words. He did that, she had noticed before, thought his responses through in order to give the most concise and direct answer that he was able to. It was one of the things that she liked the most about him; he didn’t sugarcoat things or mince his words. He was straightforward, something that was all too rare in her world.

“He is dangerous in a way that the other knights are not,” he answered finally, “I do not trust his charm.”

“His charm?” Sansa said, beginning to laugh but stopping when she saw the serious look on his face.

“How many charming men have you met in King’s Landing, Little Bird?”

“More than I can count.”

“And how many of them have ever meant to do you a kindness?”

She immediately understood his meaning. It was strange; there were so many snakes with silver tongues in the capital, so many roses with barbed thorns. Her father had always told her that evil wore a handsome face, to try and lure people into wicked ways. Until she had arrived in King’s Landing, she had largely ignored this advice. She understood it now though, and she understood the Hound’s reservations towards his comrade. She nodded at his question.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Keep your guards up around people like him. If they’re willing to beat you and then bow to you in the next heartbeat, they are nothing but cowards and cravens. They can’t be trusted.”

They carried on walking, slow in their pace. They were in no hurry, not in this peaceful place. Sansa thought about the Hound’s words, thought about his disgust at Ser Arys’ willingness to beat her. He had a very strict code of honour, one that he had decided for himself. He refused to take the Knight’s oath, and she realised now that it was because he did what he felt was right and honourable for him, not what some old ledger dictated. He had never hit her, maybe because he saw her as weak, maybe because she was innocent in his eyes. But the rest of the knights, with their oaths and their promises, they had been all too happy to beat the blood from her. Honour was a curious thing: some found honour in following their orders; others found it in doing what was right. The more she thought about his actions, the more she believed that, in another world, in another life, Sandor Clegane and her father could have been friends. It warmed her heart and made her smile, but there was something about it that preyed heavily on her mind…

“My Lord,” she called out, her mouth moving before she even realised that the words had formed on her tongue, “You have never hit me.”

“I haven’t,” he agreed.

“I just want you to know that… I know you wouldn’t want to but… I just wanted to say that, if he ever asks you to… that is to say…”

“Spit it out, girl.”

“If Joffrey ever asks you to hit me… I want you to do it. I won’t be upset and I won’t blame you. I’d want you to do it.”

The Hound said nothing for a moment, but his eyes were piercing. She felt like she should explain herself, clarify her meaning, but the fierceness of his gaze stopped the words in her throat. He drew very close to her all of a sudden, but she was not scared like she might once have been. She saw no menace or temper in him, though there was anger brewing in the stormy grey depths of his eyes.

“You would will me to beat you, Little Bird?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

He stood but inches from her and she could almost feel the coolness emanating off of his armour and onto her skin, giving her goosebumps even in the warm sun. She looked up to his great height, squinting as the sun hit her eyes, and she explained softly:

“You would get in trouble if you refused. I don’t...” she paused, searching for the right words to let him know just what she felt. “I would rather bear a bruise than see you punished.”

He leaned down and met her eyes closely, before putting his thumb to the place on her mouth where he had healed her just a week ago. The blood was gone and the swelling too, but it was still lightly bruised, enough for Sansa to flinch a little when he pressed there. He sighed hoarsely at her pain, at her selflessness, at her big blue eyes staring earnestly into his.

“I would not do this to you.”

“But if it ever comes to it,” she said firmly, “you must. We are both just trying to survive in a world that we didn’t make, are we not? You have done so much to help me – I would do this for you. Happily.”

The Hound looked unhappy, but Sansa would not move on the matter. He shook his head wearily and continued walking once more, unsatisfied but unwilling to argue. She knew that her words wouldn’t change anything, but she was not prepared to let it go unsaid. He had to know, he had to understand, she was not going to allow him to be the only one making sacrifices. He wasn’t going to be her martyr; he meant more to her than that.

The sun began to drop as they walked quietly about the elms trees, comfortable in both silence and conversation. He didn’t say much to her, but she was amazed to find that her usual inclination toward prattle and gossip had ebbed from her. Where once she felt the need to fill every silence with chatter, she now enjoyed the long pauses which allowed her to think and reflect and enjoy the peace. She realised sadly that it had been almost a year since she had seen Jeyne Poole, her typical gossiping partner; and she hoped that the poor, silly thing had found a companion of her own. She prayed that she wasn’t alone. Jeyne wasn’t like her; she couldn’t adapt, couldn’t survive without someone to guide her. It broke her heart to think of the poor, innocent girl, scared and confused, wrapped up in all of this just because her father swore allegiance to Eddard Stark. It was painfully unfair.

“You’ll have to be heading back, Little Bird,” the Hound commented, breaking the silence as he looked up to the setting sun.

“Yes,” she agreed, shaken from her thoughts of her lost friend, “I think you are right.”

They paused for a moment, and Sansa liked to believe that he was as reluctant to leave as she was. He might have been recalcitrant and gruff and, yes, sometimes he could have a temper, but she felt calm around him in a way that she didn’t believe anyone else did. It amused her, somehow, when she thought back to how frightened she had been of him when they had first met. It amused her, but it also made her feel guilty. From the very beginning, he had done nothing but look out for her. She knew that he wouldn’t hurt her, had known that from the start; it was only her vanity and her superficiality that had stopped her from seeing the goodness in him from the very first day. She wondered how many people he had reached out in his life only to be shunned for the scars he bore and the roughness of his manners.

“I’ll go first,” she suggested, “if we leave separately, then you won’t have worry about any silly questions about why you were with me.”

He didn’t give much a response beyond a curt nod, but Sansa was pleased to be helpful nonetheless. He had told her on many occasions to consider her behaviours and use them to lie to anyone who might use her honesty against her; she had finally started to take his advice into consideration. She knew he would be secretly pleased at that. She didn’t need to hear him say it to know it, didn’t need the verbal validation. He wasn’t one who would rather do with words what he could better do with actions. Instead of telling her that she did well, he showed her through his own behaviours. He didn’t feel the need to positively reinforce her all the time, like so many had throughout her life. She had been spoiled by it, really, always being told how well she did things or how cleverly or beautifully she performed tasks. She knew that it was done out of nothing but love, but it had made her grow into such a soft and delicate creature. The Hound was teaching her, slowly but surely, how to be harder and more resilient, how to make good decisions, how to adapt and survive. It was all he had ever done for her. She shook her head with a smile and stopped stalling. It really was time to leave.

“Well then. Good evening, my Lord.”

“And to you.”

She gave a crude, hurried version of a curtsy and began to dart away, knowing that if she waited any longer, she wouldn’t want to leave. The Hound was not a great talker and she had to draw chat out of him, it was true, but the warmth with which he spoke to her was like medicine for her soul. Somehow, his unpractised conversation was scraping away at her loneliness and she had a feeling that it was doing him the world of good too. She felt, all of a sudden like she was bubbling over with positivity, with gratitude, with affection. She turned back quickly and called to him.

“My Lord?”

“Yes, Little Bird?”

“There is something I have been meaning to give you for some time. Could I give it to you now?”

He looked surprised but nodded and walked over to her. In the setting sun, he looked calm and restful, a far cry from the darkness that usually followed him. A warm, orange glow fell on the two of them as they stood together beneath the elm tree and, for just a moment, Sansa felt like he had never seemed softer or kinder than he did right then. She crooked her finger at him, indicating for him to lean down to her short stature. When he did, she finally mustered up her courage and swooped up to him, pressing her lips to his scarred and wounded cheek. It was fast, chaste and over so quickly that it could have almost been considered businesslike, but the dragonfire that erupted within her when her pretty pink mouth touched the tortured mess of his face was unmistakable and unstoppably exciting.

Before he had a chance to react, she turned from him and, springing off of the plush grass as though it were made of goose down, she skipped lightly away from him, her heart singing. She was filled with blushing glee as she practically flew away from the Godswood and danced down the corridors leading her to Maegor’s Holdfast. She hadn’t been able to enjoy anything as girlish and exciting as a bit of harmless flirtation in so long that it had filled her to the brim with sparks. ‘ _Harmless flirtation_ ,’ she reminded herself, ‘ _harmless, of course_ ’. She wanted to make him happy and show him her gratitude – that’s what friends did, wasn’t it? But that didn’t explain why, when she reached her room, she threw herself down on her bed and laughed giddily into the pillow with a face as hot and red as embers in a brazier.

She rolled over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, all of a sudden feeling like she was back in Winterfell, one year younger and more innocent. She felt lighter, somehow, like she could laugh and smile again for that moment. It was such a refreshing feeling that it almost overwhelmed her, making her all at once want to laugh, cry, sing! The feelin that she had dared not give name to, the one made her feel like she was hiding a hive of bees down her dress that were making her fizz and tingle, was back again and it sat on the tip of her tongue, benevolent and frightening at the same time.

It couldn’t be – but then, could it? It mustn’t be – but why not? She knew it wasn’t – but did she? Oh, it was so dreadfully confusing! She tried to clear her head, bring herself back to reality. She thought of the ribbons of scarring that crept across his face, the hateful fire that burned in his eyes, the fear that he struck in her heart by simply being. She pictured it all, visualised it to try and make sense of the shivers he instilled in her. But she knew it wasn’t terror that caused that shivering. When she thought of his ravaged face, she felt his soft scar tissue on her lips; when she tried to picture his angry, piercing eyes, she saw instead the gentle look of pity and heartache that he gave her when he saw her treated ill; and the fear that he made her feel? No such thing. It was safety, it was affection, it was companionship. Not fear. Not for longer than she could remember.

She lay on her bed for what felt like days, mapping out every inch of his wounded heart, clenching fistfuls of silken duvet between shaking hands, blushing furiously at pretend conversations in which she planned every outcome. It felt so real, so intense all of a sudden that she barely knew how to contain it. That feeling – could it really be...?

A knock at her door stopped her thoughts dead, and made her sit up sharply. She looked out of her window and saw the sun had finally dropped beyond the horizon and cast darkness over King’s Landing. All was quiet but for the thumping of her heartbeat in her ears. It was a firm and masculine knock, not one of the shy little tappings of the ladies-in-waiting. She racked her brains for someone who would come to her in darkness, knock politely and wait for her response. Joffrey would have just barged in – his castle, his rules. Cersei would have grown bored of waiting by now and marched in to demand an audience with her. The Kingsguard would have slammed loudly on the door til she answered. But now, there was just silence. She couldn’t help but let a little smile pull at the corners of her mouth. Perhaps, she thought with a delightfully naughty bite of her lip, a kiss on the cheek had turned out to not be enough. She giggled at the silliness of her imagination and stood to approach the door. There was no doubt in her mind as to who it was and, though she was almost embarrassed to admit it, she was already excited to be seeing him again. She straightened her dress and smoothed her hair, before reaching out to the door and pulling it slowly and coyly open.

When she saw who was on the other side, her smile fell from her lips and her heart slowed its pace.

“Good evening, Ser Arys.”

“Lady Sansa,” he replied with a lazy bob of the head.

He leaned up against the door frame languidly, his long hair draped against his handsome face. He was out of armour, wearing a loose tunic instead of his usual, carefully polished breastplate. His eyes were heavy lidded and his smile was stupid – she knew instantly, before she even looked at the wine skin in his hand, that he had been drinking. He smelled like midnight in a banquet hall. He leaned in closely from the door and she instinctively drew back.

“All alone in there, are we?”

“Yes, Ser, I am.”

“Good, good.”

There was a pause, during which Sansa fidgeted with her hands and chewed her bottom lip uncomfortably. Ser Arys simply stared at her for a moment, the silly smile still plastered over his face. After a peculiar amount of time had passed in silence, Sansa finally took the door in her hand and said:

“Well, if there is nothing you require of me, I will say good night.”

“The night is young, Lady Stark,” Ser Arys said boldly, pushing past the door that she had attempted to close on him and standing in the middle of her room, “And I have got nowhere to be.”

“Ser Arys,” Sansa hissed, “It is indecent for me to have you in my room. Indecent and wholly unwelcome! I must ask you to leave.”

“Didn’t seem to mind having Clegane in here though, did you?”

Sansa stopped cold at this, the blood in her veins turning to blisteringly cold steel. Arys looked smug and, for the first time since she had known him, unspeakably ugly. She stared at him, not sure what to say, and watched as he took a seat at the foot of her bed, rubbing his hands over the soft covers.

“You’ll want to close that door, Sansa,” he said pleasantly.

Without a word, her breaths catching in her throat, she did so, staring out into the hallway for as long as she could before she closed the door on it, hoping for her hero to appear in the darkness. He didn’t. She turned around and pressed her back against the door tightly.

“What do you want?” she finally managed to croak out hoarsely.

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin answering that question,” he slurred in response, loosening the cork in his wine skin.

“Then why are you here?”

Her voice was weak and mouselike. She wanted to know why he had brought up the Hound, what relevance he had, what Arys knew. She wanted to ask him but she was afraid to. The knight began, curiously, to unbuckle the boots he wore, before kicking them off across the room.

“Please don’t make yourself comfortable,” Sansa whispered.

“I am here,” he answered, ignoring her last request, “because I think that you have got the solution to so many of my problems.”

“What could I possibly help you with? What have I got that you want?”

“I want,” he roared, angry all of a sudden, “to stay in King’s Landing! I want my lifelong oath to be honoured!”

“How can I help with that!? The king doesn’t listen to me!”

“No, Stark, he doesn’t. But here is where we are going to make a deal.”

He stood up and padded over to her, his feet silent on the stone floors. He came very close to her, so close that she could feel his sour, alcohol tinged breath on her cheek. She drew as far against the door as she could, wanting more than anything to be able to curl into a ball and disappear. She was so stupid. She was so foolish to have thought, even for a second, that she could find any sort of happiness in this awful place. He placed both hands on either side of her head, trapping her against the door.

“Sandor Clegane will go to Dorne instead of me.”

“I don’t know what you’re-“

“Shut your mouth, you little whore,” Arys growled bitterly, before continuing, “Sandor Clegane will go to Dorne, or I will tell your beloved King where you have been throwing your cunt about.”

She stopped struggling against him and looked slowly up and into his eyes. The simpleton smile was gone from his face and even the lazy, half focus had disappeared from his gaze. What she saw now was anger, resentment, bitterness. What she couldn’t understand was why so much of that was directed at her.

“I haven’t done anything,” she cried out, weak as a kitten, “I don’t know what you are talking about!”

“Don’t think for a second that I haven’t noticed the looks he gives you, the smiles you share. Don’t think that I didn’t notice his possessiveness when he escorted you to your room last week – and the fact that he stayed there for nearly an hour. You know exactly what I am talking about.”

In an instant, Arys’ hands had moved down to grab her shoulders, his fingers digging into soft skin agonisingly. She cried out and struggled, but he held her in place by pressing his hips against hers with aggression and something that was unmistakably lust.

“I can see why he wants you. Young, pretty, sweet. Any man would want to be the first to fuck you blind.”

“Please, get off me...!” Sansa sobbed.

“What I can’t understand,” he continued, ignoring her pleas, “Is why on earth you would lower yourself to an ugly, misshapen freak like Clegane. You could have had your pick, Sansa. Any of us would have put our life on the line for a chance at your lovely, virgin cunt. But you chose him. A very curious choice.”

She cried out again as he pressed himself hard against her, one hand wandering from her shoulder to her hip and travelling lazily up and down the soft curve of her side. He leaned in close to her, and for a moment she was terrified that he might try to kiss her, but then he drew back from her suddenly and walked over to her dresser. He eyed her up and down from that distance, taking in the image of her sobbing and clutching at herself. The smug smile was on his face once more.

“He will volunteer to escort Myrcella to Dorne. You will convince him to do that. Otherwise, the King will hear about your little tryst, first thing in the morning.”

“But there is nothing to tell...”

“You’re probably right,” he replied simply, “But that doesn’t really matter to me. The King is stupid enough and proud enough that a little rumor would be more than enough to see you both killed.”

“I have done nothing to you!” Sansa cried pathetically, “Why would you do this!?”

“It’s politics, Sansa, politics. Nothing personal.”

He laughed a little at his own joke and then he face fell again. His expression became very serious, but Sansa did not trust the way he looked at her from under his brow, his eyes deep and angry but full of fire. She grasped for the handle of the door as he advanced upon her once more, but he grabbed her and pulled her away before she could open it. Before she knew it, he had one hand at her throat and another on her breast, squeezing painfully as he growled in her ear:

“Well, perhaps it is a little personal. I always did like to imagine what you would look like wriggling away underneath me.”

“Get off me! Get off or I will scream!”

“And who will hear? Maids who are told to ignore you? Knights who couldn’t care less what the king does to you in his spare time?”

“Please stop... Please.”

“I think I will fuck you anyway, Sansa,” he said casually, in a voice made for pleasantries, “I don’t really see how I have anything to lose.”

In a quick movement, he pushed her backwards, leaving her sprawled across her bed, scared and vulnerable. She pushed her flaming hair from her face and saw Arys hastily unbuttoning his trouser laces and reaching inside. He moved his hand inside his trousers as he stared at her, frozen in fear, her skirts scattered across bare legs. He stopped to grab those legs, which she tried in vain to kick violently at him with, and then pulled her to the edge of the bed, where he leaned over her and pinned her in place.

Before he could reach into his trousers to pull out the contents, she screamed at the top of her lungs, writhing and kicking as much as she could, screaming every rude word she knew, screaming for help, screaming in long, draw out, guttural sounds. Finally, as his hand moved towards his hard, protruding length, she prayed to every God she knew, the Old and the New, and called out the name of the man that she was never more sure that she loved.


	12. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a temper, Sandor chances upon Sansa's room at an opportune moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I really struggled with this chapter, so I really hope you like it :/ Enjoy!

The Hound staggered up a seemingly never ending staircase that swam in front of his bleary eyes mockingly; it seemed like an impossible task in the state he was in, but still he stubbornly lurched onwards.

Of course he had turned to drinking. What else what he supposed to do when someone so beautiful and so lovely kissed a monster like him? A beautiful princess who he was supposed to relinquish unto the barbed, violent arms of a demon like Joffrey? The idea of that vile little bastard touching one perfect, innocent hair on the Little Bird’s head was agony, a dull roar of constant pain that could only be quieted by an excess of drink and, even for a man of his size and stature, the excess that he had indulged in was pushing the boundaries.

His Little Bird’s kiss had been agony to him, as he reflected on the dire situation that she was in. He had hoped that Sansa would be saved from Joffrey’s bloody hands by the prospective arrangement being negotiated by Littlefinger, that the appearance of Margaery Tyrell in their plans would have removed his little Stark from the King’s sights. He knew though, in the depths of his heart, that it only put her in a more dangerous position. She would no longer be protected by the title of ‘Queen’ or ‘Wife’, and her life would not be worth a damn in King’s Landing. Joffrey didn’t care about the vengeance Robb Stark would vow if his little sister turned up dead (‘ _or worse_ ,’ Sandor thought blackly) and wouldn’t hold back on his vitriol for the sake of peace with the King in the North.

Sansa’s life was hanging in the balance because of the King that he was ordered to protect, and yet she _kissed_ him in gratitude, _kissed_ the hideousness of his burnt face. And on top of it all, she had slipped away from him quickly to save him the pain of seeing the disgust on her face after she had done it, to keep him from the embarrassment of knowing that she had abhorred doing it. He had almost been angry at first, when he stood alone amongst the sunset-bathed trees of the Godswood, a holy place that he didn’t belong in anyway. He had wanted to rage at the action that he instantly took for mocking or teasing – after all, why else would she kiss him? But, as peace descended and stillness seeped into him, he realised that it was an action borne of her innocence. She really was a silly thing, to believe that she was obligated to show him such a kindness.

The idea of her soft, rosebud lips on his ruined face haunted him. He was a selfish son of a bitch, he knew that – it was a fact that had kept him alive. But, somehow, the idea that his ruin and destruction could mar the snow white purity of her sweetness was something which he simply could not accept. He wanted to soak in the feeling of her willing mouth on his skin, imagine it all over his rough, scarred body, but he also drank to forget it. He couldn’t allow her to lower herself to his standard for the sake of gratitude and safety – it would blacken within her everything that he loved. He couldn’t touch anything without destroying it, and he would not be responsible for destroying her.

He had to make himself forget the feeling of her sweet, beautiful mouth, or else it would haunt him during every waking moment.

He finally reached his door, though it had been a struggle to pick it out amongst what seemed like hundreds of identical ones. He leaned against it heavily, resting his forehead on the cool wood, pressing his gauntleted fist hard against it. He pressed harder and harder with the sharp edge of his metal knuckles, boring splinters into the wood, his temper mounting.

It wasn’t fair.

It was a sentence that he had stopped himself from using since he was a child, because he realised young that it didn’t fix a thing. As a small boy, it had done him no good to protest that it wasn’t fair that Gregor wouldn’t let him play with the handsomely whittled toy knight; it wasn’t fair that the injuries afforded to him by his brother made people terrified of him; it wasn’t fair that he lost his sweet, lovely sister. But he had always soldiered on, in spite of everything that held him back. And yet, now, the weight of it all was suffocating, building up inside of him with fire and screaming and bitter rage. He had suffered for so long with _nothing_. He had gone _without_ for such a long time, a yawning chasm of emptiness that, for just the briefest moment, had been filled with _her_ , with her goodness and her kindness and the way that she made him feel that he was not merely a ghost of a man, half wreathed in shadows. He had grown soft and yielding before her charms and it was _all her fault_.

Her fault that he was like this. Her fault that he was unmanned. Her fault that he was weak.

He felt the pressure of his own anger building up inside and, with a growling roar, he balled up his fist and thrust it into the splintered gouge that he had already wreaked upon the door. The door shook and creaked but did not defer to his rage, and so Sandor rested his head against it once more and let out a pent up breath, his vision spinning with drink. With gritted teeth, he grabbed the handle and shouldered his way through and into his room, where he flung out his arm and swept empty bottles from his table onto the floor with a thundering crash. The discordant, shattering noise satisfied his impulse for ruin and the pain that echoed in his hand was surprisingly soporific.

He breathed heavily, sweeping the hair from his face as he looked at the broken glass. He hadn’t asked for her to come to him, hadn’t asked for her to speak to him in a voice sweeter than fresh river water, hadn’t asked her to look at him with those honest eyes that were the colour of snow at dusk. She had sought _him_ out and looked to _him_ for comfort and friendship, not the other way around. She had beseeched him for his friendship and, stupidly, he had let her chip away at the guards and the defences that he had so carefully built up, built up to ensure his own safety.

She had built a home for herself in the cavern of his heart, had burrowed down beneath his chest and nested there among the dead things. And he had let her. He had vainly believed for a moment that her sweetness might be asking for more than just friendship or protection. He had dared himself to believe that just because she could look at his face, she might be able to love it.

He threw his empty wineskin to the wall and left it crumpled and wilted on the floor. The wet slap of noise it produced was unsatisfying and so he followed it by flinging his wooden chair after it and reducing it to kindling. Liquid fire ran through his veins, something which normally subsided with a little bit of mindless destruction - today, however, it refused to go and he was left with a burning need, a need that he knew would not be stilled until he had his hands on a woman.

In his drunken mind, he tried to picture the myriad of whores in Baelish’s pleasure houses, but with each curve, with each mouth, with each tit, all he could think of was Sansa Stark. He rubbed his hand over his face forcefully, trying to scrub away the scent of her hair and the cool, soft touch of her lips. It was no good. The memories invaded his senses and he felt himself growing hard beneath his armour, his arousal impossible to ignore when he was this drunk. He pawed uselessly at the buckle that secured his cuirass, desperate to shed himself of his armoured vestments and relieve himself of the tension of _wanting._ His cock was pressing hard through his trousers and straining against the cool metal of his tasset, but in his drunken haze he was unable to work the fastenings of his armour, leaving him fervent and unsatisfied.

He fell down to his bed, his head in his hands. He wanted her. She had _made_ him want her, in ways that he had never needed or wanted a woman. He didn’t just want her body, he wanted her _everything_. He wanted her hair on his pillow when he woke in the mornings. He wanted her sweet nothings whispered into his ears as he held her. His wanted his name to spill from her lips when she was both happy and sad.

But a young thing like her, a rare, wild thing like her, could never love an abomination of blood and bone like him.

She needed to know. She needed to know about the spark, the flicker that she had set amongst the bracken and briars of his heart. In his drunken, swimming mind, he felt the sudden drive and desire to tell her everything, to rage at her about the love that she had inflicted upon him, to beg her for the slightest return of affection like the dog he was. She had to know. He had to tell her. Maybe, if she knew...

He reeled to his feet, grabbing outwards for the edge of his table. On it, he found that, mercifully, a small bottle of ink had survived his ire and remained unscathed during his destruction, and he took it in his hand. He then fell to his knees and searched among the shattered detritus of his belongings for a quill and parchment. He shook the rough leaves of paper free of the puddle of wine that they were being soaked by and laid them out flat on the table, brushing them delicately with his shaking hands.

Taking the driest, he fell back to the floor with a thump and took up his pen. With a leaden weight in his chest, the man who spoke with swords and blood began to empty the love in his heart onto the paper.

**_Lady Stark,_ **

**_I love you more than words can s_ **

Instantly, the paper was torn in twain and scrunched into a ball that quickly found its way to the other side of the room. Even just seeing the words on paper made him angry and spiteful. _Love_. What did he know of love? Misplaced lust was all it was. He would not fill her head with illusions of knights and courting. He couldn’t afford to make her think that his affection was so honourable or so candid. He took up another sheet from the desk.

**_Sansa,_ **

**_I don’t doubt that you meant well by showing me your affection and I won’t pretend that it was unwelcome. But you must know that your kindness gave me room to hope for things that I know can never be. I know that you’re too beautiful and too highborn for a bastard like me, and to give me such hope was unknowingly cruel. You never should have come to me with your words of fucking friendship and companionship. I was fine before you came along. You may be kind and sweet and lovely, but you are still a woman. And women do not look at men like me for anything but my blade. If you think that you can whore yourself to me for the promise of my protection then_ **

Again, the paper was discarded angrily. Closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the table, he blindly pawed around the broken glass. His hand rested against a bottle that was miraculously unbroken and so he rolled it over to himself and then pulled the cork out with his teeth, swallowing down the contents. It was sharp, dry and sour and he let out a gasp of refreshment as he wiped it from his mouth. He hadn’t counted on this being so hard.

He knew what she wanted him to be, what he would have to be if he wanted her for his own. But he couldn’t pretend that that was the person that he was inside, and even the porcelain of her chest and the winterblue of her eyes couldn’t change that. He couldn’t offer her chivalry. He could only offer himself. And if he was to be to her everything that she was to him, he could not ensnare her with pretty lies that he was incapable of maintaining. He had promised her, long ago, that he would never lie to her. Gritting his teeth, he took up his scratching ink quill again.

**_Little Bird,_ **

**_I am wounded by you._ **

**_Know now that I would take from you anything that you would give to me, be it your body, your affection or your heart. I could not give you much in return, but I would keep you safe and love you like no man else. No knight or lord could offer you the same degree of love or devotion, and I beg for that to be enough._ **

**_I crave to know every part of you, to know you in ways that your Septa never taught you about and your mother would be ashamed of. I want to fuck you til my name, my real name, is screamed from your pretty little mouth, til you beg for my touch. I would own your cunt until you forgot the name of every knight you ever fantasised about. You might not believe it now, but I would love you until you longed to see this hideous face. I would show you the sweet pleasures that your body was made for._ **

**_You have brought me the impossible hope that, one day, you might be able to love me in all the ways that I love you._ **

**_If you cannot, all I ask is that you spare me your disgust and humiliation. I am yours without question and I will be your loyal dog until my last breath. You have a servant in me, Little Bird, one that will never betray you or allow harm to come to you._ **

**_I swear myself to you, with the promise that I will always put your life and your will above my own._ **

**_Your Hound_ **

He contemplated scrunching up this paper too, but something stopped him. He reread it, once, twice, countless times and finally folded it and placed it carefully on his desk. He couldn’t give it to her. He knew that the simpering devotion in the letter would only cause her pain and disgust. He was not a man of letters, he was a man of action – he could never make her see with his words. He would have to show her, use his acts to prove to her how sickeningly committed he was to her.

Committed. Devoted. _In love_? He pictured himself, for a second, through the eyes of another, pictured the sight of him flung prostrate on the floor, surrounded by broken bottles and slurring the Stark girl’s name in whispers to the night. He saw himself through Gregor’s eyes and saw how pathetic he really was. What would the Mountain, his brother, think if he saw him defeated by the whims and wiles of a pretty girl? What would he say to him and how would he punish him for his weakness? Sandor Clegane did not _fall in love._ He took what he wanted and used it up until there was nothing left. He was a Clegane and Cleganes were fighters, not lovers.

Sandor held his hands to his forehead as he tried to shake the image of his angry, taunting brother from his head. ‘Wretched bastard,’ the apparition jeered in his drunken thoughts, ‘pathetic, weak son of a whore.’ And what was worse, the Hound realised, was that Gregor was right. He had decided long ago that his survival was contingent on being alone and caring for no one. He didn’t even have the conviction to keep a vow to himself. He was so weak and desperate for human contact that he had turned to a young girl, a _Stark_ , for companionship. His brother would be ashamed and Sandor would be humiliated for anyone to see or know of his indiscretions.

With a roar, he finally thrust his fist to the floor, the fury rising in his throat with a visceral snarl. He **_would_** show her. He would show her that it was her fault that he was reduced to this drunken, snivelling mess. He would show her what she had done to him, make her answer for the agony she had caused him. The words in that letter belonged to another man, a man that he did not recognise. Love? Sandor Clegane knew nothing of love and he would not learn now.

He couldn’t believe the depths that he had sunk to, the pitiful lengths to which he had reached in order to try to catch her affections. To vow himself to her, as his letter dictated, was a joke, an embarrassment. It was all just a momentary slip in his judgement that could be easily remedied. He would go to her, show her what she had done to him and then take from her what he wanted. His time as her pet was over and he wanted someone to answer for his agony.

He listed towards his door, pitching violently as he fell to the handle. Collecting himself once more, he burst from his room and strode with newfound determination back down the twisting corridors of the White Sword Tower. It was strangely quiet, a mercy really as it meant that he would not have to endure the idiocy of his comrades, something that would no doubt distract his attentions from his current mission. He needed to maintain this feeling, this anger; his natural streak of temper had been waning of late, and he knew that it was because of _her_. It was something he planned to rectify, and he would not be able to do that if he lost his momentum.

At the drawbridge of Maegor’s Holdfast, Boros Blount stood guard, leaning on his sword with his eyes half open in the advancing night. He spied Sandor storming across the courtyard from a distance and so straightened up quickly, fixing him with a distasteful gaze and making a point of obstructing his path. As the Hound approached, though, he made no signs of stopping. Blount was shoved to the side with a firm thrust of his muscled shoulder, nearly throwing him to the ground. As the Hound carried on, unfaltering, he heard Blount cry out in the darkness:

“Oi, you big bastard, watch your fucking step!”

Sandor reeled around to face him and set him in his place with a cold, hard stare. Unsurprisingly, Blount did not seem to have any more words for him and if he did have any they died in his throat, so he turned back to the Holdfast and pushed through the doors. He had no interest in the opinions of his Kingsguard comrades and so was unmoved by the litany of curse words he could hear Blount spout when he thought the Hound was out of earshot.

He stalked the corridors, his hands balled in rage. He hated her, at that moment, hated her for the weaknesses that she had inflicted upon him. He had offered her, in his stupid, ill-conceived letter, anything and everything that she wanted of him and asked for no reward. He had been prepared to watch over her like a guardian fucking angel and wanted nothing in return. She had reduced him to a lovesick green boy, an embarrassment. He hated her for it.

He stopped short as he wheeled round a corridor too quickly, causing his head to spin. He leaned heavily against the wall with his shoulder, taking a couple of deep breaths and closing his eyes. His blood coursed through him like lava, prickling hotly at every point in his body. His heart felt like it had swollen, a bloody, pumped up mess of beating vengeance, as though it could explode at any moment, breaking down the walls and letting free whatever blackened hatred it held within it.

When had it come to this? Even his name for her, _Little Bird_ , when had that name come to stand for softness and affection? The first time he had uttered it, it had been in mocking and cruelty. She had been offended by that name once, a name that reminded her of her cage and her captivity, a name that reminded her of her weaknesses. But now? It was a secret between them, a display of his fondness for her. It no longer reminded her of her imprisonment but made her feel safe in his hands. And he couldn’t pretend that it hadn’t changed for him either: he used to snarl it at her, incensed by her polite manners and good breeding. Now though, he cradled the words in his mouth as though savouring their taste. He spat on the ground, his saliva black with sour red. Why was everything she touched tainted with her softness?

He had always wanted to fuck her, and that hadn’t changed. Since he had laid eyes on her in Winterfell, her youthful radiance shining beyond the cold and the snow, he had craved to plunge himself into her and know her the way a man would know a whore. Her youth and naivety had not stopped the blood rushing to his cock when he had lain alone in his cot, and in his mind he had played out every single way that he wanted to desecrate her tiny, innocent body countless times over.

That had always been his drive with the Stark girl. That had always been his motivation. He had sworn to himself before that he would not betray his own safety for the sake of her pretty face and perky tits, and now was no different. He was glad he had written that letter. It had served to remind him of the man he had become, the one that he hated and reviled, the one that he was only too eager to renounce. He almost felt excited to see the confusion on her face when he cut her down to size and reminded her of her place.

She was not friend to him. He didn’t have friends. And more than anything, he did not have lovers or sweethearts or whatever it was that she fancied herself as acting in order to secure his fealty. As he staggered along the corridors, his hand grasping the wall for support, he wondered if she would beg him to reconsider shunning her, throw herself at his knees in desperation? What would she offer him for his continued favour? Her love, perhaps? Or her body?

That idea shot the hot blood straight to his manhood and he grinned in an unpleasant smile which was rooted in an emotion far from happiness. Yes, he thought darkly, yes, to own her body would be an excellent way to remedy the wounds that she had dealt him. It might just be worth it if he could have a shot at taking her body and using it in whatever ways he saw fit, doing to it what he felt he was owed. He had, after all, laid his neck on the line for her countless times now. Didn’t he deserve recompense for that?

She would be only too willing to give it. He knew that she was in too deep now, plunged too far into a lie that she could no longer refuse. She had gone to him with whispers and sweetness, sure that it would secure her safety. If she was to deny him his desires now, she would lose his protection and he knew that she would not be willing to do that. He was not too proud to exploit her dependence on him. He used whores for money – why would he not use his power over the Little Bird to get something that he really wanted? He wondered what her song would sound like with his cock buried deep inside of her.

He ploughed down the corridors with his primal thoughts charging him forward. Forgotten were her coy smiles and her soft words. Gone was the way that she made him feel like he could be a better man. He was blinded by his ache for her. When all seemed lost for him, however, his cloud of rage and lust was interrupted by the dull, muffled sound of a woman’s cry from the empty halls. His mind was slow and groggy, but it took barely a moment for him to realise whose voice it was; it was hers, his Little Bird’s, and she was in trouble.

He started into a stumbling run, his blood boiling now for entirely different reasons. He was flooded with panic and his feet moved entirely by their own volition. It was a compulsion – he didn’t know how or why, but still he realised that, no matter how he tried to reject or deny it, he would always run for Sansa Stark.

He arrived at her door, and heard the cries and the anguish intensify in both volume and desperation. He tried the handle, his fingers slipping in his haste and his drunkenness. When the handle failed, he began to ram his shoulder into the door, relying on his pure bulk and muscle to grant him passage. The cries inside reached a crescendo which were met with the snarling roar of a man, a man whom Sandor was determined would meet his blade. The cries then turned to whimpers, sad, pained whimpers, and Sandor turned the door latch to splinters.

He stopped dead when his hate-filled eyes met the sight within.

Arys Oakheart lay on the floor clutching at his neck, hands covered in spouting rivulets of sticky red. The whimpers were his.

Standing above him, her dress torn and her eyes bloodshot with tears, was Sansa, and she wore a garland of blood at her snarling lips. Her mouth was stained red with the evidence of her victim and Sandor realised for the first time that she was no mere girl; she was a Wolf and she was proud and fierce. And Wolves went for the throat.

They stood in silence for a moment and the only sounds that permeated through their stillness were Arys’ pathetic, strangled whimpers. Sansa’s eyes streamed with tears, but they were still defiant and haughty. Without a word, Sandor held an arm open to her, with his cloak in his hand, and she slowly went to him and stood nestled in his chest. It was not the act of a protective lover but, absurdly, more the act of a mother duck sheltering its baby underneath its wing. He wrapped the arm around her, enrobing her in the white of his cloak. He held the edge of it to her mouth and wiped at the fast drying blood around her mouth. She never took her eyes off of his, not for even a second, barely even to blink. Now that she was in his arms, he realised that her tightly wound composure was held together with only a fragile thread, betrayed by the tiny, violent shakes of her hands. He held his cloak to her lips and uttered one word.

“Spit.”

She did, emptying a mouthful of blood onto his white mantle. He wished he had brought a wineskin with him, so that she could wash the rest from her lips. Instead, he just dabbed gently at her in the hope that he could soak the taste and the pain away. He glanced over at Oakheart sharply and then back at the girl in his arms.

“Did that bastard… Did he...?”

“No,” she replied in a tiny voice, “No, I didn’t give him the chance.”

Sandor couldn’t help but give her a little smile at that. Of course she didn’t give him the chance. He had done as all the stupid men in King’s Landing had done. He had underestimated her, underestimated what she was made of. It wasn’t stardust and moonlight that ran through her veins, it wasn’t something ethereal and faint. She was shot through with iron: cold, gritty iron. She might have seemed weak, but her blood was the same colour as his and was tempered with the same rage and heartache.

As he looked at Arys, pathetic, drunken Arys who lay bleeding on the floor, his stomach churned. That could have been him. He had intended to come to Sansa’s room, planned on making her his with or without her consent. And what was worse... The Little Bird trusted him. He felt his grip on her grow slack as the horrible realisation dawned on him. He had let his lust taint and tarnish the honour that he had sworn her. He was the same as the mewling creature on the floor, and that knowledge nearly made him retch.

Instead, he took his sword in his hand and stormed over to the knight on the floor, where he held the tip of the blade to Arys’ throat. He poked him in the hand with it, forcing the knight to remove it from his wound so that Sandor could see the damage. There was a savage gouge torn inelegantly from his neck, ragged as a result of the use of teeth, but not deep. It bled profusely, but was not fatal. She had missed his jugular, a mercy really as the last thing they needed was a dead knight of the Kinsguard on their hands. The Hound knelt down beside him and growled:

“I told you not to go near her, Oakheart.”

The only response was a gurgled croak. Sandor’s rage bubbled to the surface.

“You are pathetic,” he spat, “to try and force yourself on this girl. You are not even fit to sniff at her chamber pots.”

He could feel anger balling in his fists and was desperate to give into his temper as he usually would. He had to suppress it though, if not for his sake then for Sansa’s. He wanted nothing more than to ruin Oakheart’s handsome face for daring to even think that he was worthy enough to touch the Little Bird, but he had to restrain himself. He owed her that much. He leaned in close and snarled:

“You won’t tell anyone what happened here tonight, and neither will we. You will go to Dorne with Myrcella and you will stay there with her as her sworn shield. We will never see your face again. Is that understood?”

More strangled gasps.

“I said,” the Hound repeated, his words calm but his voice edged with steel as he pressed his blade to the wound, “is that understood, you piss chugging cunt?”

“Yes!” Arys finally replied, “Yes, I understand!”

“Good.”

He removed his sword from the knight’s neck and placed it gently beside himself on the floor, before gesturing for Sansa to join him. She walked over slowly and carefully, before she realised that the man on the floor could do her no harm any more. The Hound ripped the cloak from Oakheart’s back and handed it to her.

“Tear this into strips, Little Bird. We’ll bandage him up and set him free.”

“But... But what if he...?”

“He won’t tell another living soul what has happened here, my girl. And we don’t need the hassle of disposing of his body if he bleeds out.”

She didn’t argue with him, seeing the wisdom in his words. She set to work, handing him long, thin strips of material, and he carefully bound them around Oakheart’s neck, tighter perhaps than was quite necessary. It agonised him to do anything that might be perceived as a kindness for the loathed knight, but he focused his mind on the bliss of knowing that, soon, neither himself nor Sansa would ever have to lay eyes on him again.

Sansa held out another strip of material to him and, as he took it, she hooked her little finger around his and held it there. He looked up at her from his place beside Arys on the floor and met her eyes reluctantly. They shone bright blue with hope and with gratitude and he could practically see her thinking, ‘ _he has saved me again’._ If she only knew why he had turned up at her door. If she only knew the dark deeds that he had planned in his drunken, lustful rage. He felt something unfamiliar, a desire to hide from his own honesty and bury his black, evil intentions deep below the ground where none would ever discover them – he was ashamed of himself, he realised, and that was a feeling that he had never really known. He had never needed to feel shame, as the only person that he ever answered to was himself. Now though, he was accountable for her life too, and that thought was a strange burden on his heart.

“You always show up right when I need you,” she whispered hoarsely, her red stained lips just barely quivering in the residual shock, “you really are my hero.”

“Hmph,” he grunted in hesitant reply, “you didn’t need anyone to save you Little Bird. Least of all me.”

He could see her brows furrow in question, but he turned his attentions back to Arys, who was now propped upwards in a sitting position and was rather more recalcitrant than he had been minutes ago. His expression was a mix of fear and thunder and his lip curled with hatred.

“She nearly ripped my fucking throat out Clegane,” he rasped furiously, eyeing her with distrust, “but you would protect her over your own comrade?”

“Close your whoreson mouth Oakheart,” Sandor replied flatly, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ohhh, I see how it is! **_That_** is hysterical. Do you really think that she would give an ugly freak like you-”

It took mere seconds for the sword to press threateningly to his throat again, but it was not Sandor who wielded it. Sansa had grabbed it from the floor and was grasping it tightly with both hands, the weight and the effort of it evident in the pale of her straining fingers. Her bloodied face displayed the wolf-like rage of her countenance and she hissed bravely:

“You know _nothing_. He is ten times the man you will _ever_ be.”

“Alright, alright! Careful where you point that!”

“You are nothing compared to him, you disgusting _beast_ , nothing!”

She was angry but there were tears in her eyes. It was an unprecedented and unexpected response, one that the Hound had never known before. He was used to being called ugly, ever since his brother had held him to the brazier and burnt his future as a monster onto his face. Never before, however, had anyone felt the need to defend him. Sandor held out his hand and palmed the hilt of the sword, pulling it gently from her hands. He was speechless in the face of her outburst, but he hid it behind his gruff exterior. He motioned for Arys to stand.

“Remember. If you breathe a word of what happened tonight to anyone, I will know. And I will personally see to it that your head replaces Ned Stark’s on a pike.”

Shakily, Arys was on his feet one more. He was bloodied, certainly, but it had been shock and his wounded pride that had ailed him more than Sansa’s teeth. Bandaged and cleaned up, he looked only a little worse for wear and would certainly make it to the White Sword Tower without too much difficulty – so long, that was, as he kept up his end of the bargain and spoke to no one. Sandor eyed him mistrustfully as he held a hand to the tight bandage around his neck and then prompted him:

“Repeat it.”

“Clegane-”

“Repeat it,” Sansa emphasised with a snarl that could have outmatched Sandor’s.

“No one will know what happened,” he finally said in a voice that could only be taken for sulky.

“Good,” Sandor said shortly, “Now get out.”

He did not need to be asked twice. Eager to do so, Oakheart brushed heavily past the Hound, making a point of barrelling through before he reached the fractured door where the latch hung sadly from its screws. He glanced back in a pathetic attempt at bravado and was gone, slamming the door behind himself as a final gesture of ill will.

Silence descended quickly in his absence as Sandor busied himself mopping up the evidence of the fracas with the left over rags of Arys’ cloak. He could barely bring himself to look his brave little direwolf in the face after what he had planned, but then he felt a warm weight against his back. She had knelt down and wrapped herself against his pauldron, and he could see ribbons of her fiery hair trickling over his shoulder and down his chest. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

“You were brave, Little Bird.”

Her arms moved from around his waist to his neck. Her embrace, so sweet and so willing, burned him like wildfire. She didn’t know what manner of man he really was. She didn’t know the cruelties that he had intended to inflict upon her.

“It was you,” she whispered into his ear, “You make me feel strong.”

He stood up quickly, shrugging her off sharply and turning to face her. She looked so small and so fragile, but there was fire in her eyes and blood on her face. She deserved so much more than he could give her, his tiny little warrior, his Little Bird.

“You don’t know what I am capable of, Sansa.”

“Your past is behind you,” she replied sensibly, putting her hand out to his, “what matters is what you do now. And you have done more for me than I will ever be able to repay.”

“You don’t understand-”

“Even tonight,” she smiled sweetly, “you saved me all over again.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You don’t need to be modest, my Lord...”

She put her little hand in his and his patience and his temper broke. He couldn’t listen to her ill-informed admiration any more, couldn’t bear the weight of her adoration. She gave it too freely, expended that loveliness on the wrong man, a man who didn’t deserve even half of the faith that she put in him. He wrenched his hand away from her, dying inside as he saw her heart break just a little.

“Do you know why I was here?” he snapped at her, “do you know why I turned up at your door in the middle of the night?”

“Well… no,” she admitted.

“I’d been drinking, Little Bird, and I wanted to fuck. I wanted to fuck you. I **_would_** have fucked you, whether you willed it or no.” He leaned in close to her, speaking through his bared teeth. “Am I still a hero, Little Bird?”

He backed away from her then, his eyes dark and unreadable. She opened her mouth to reply, but could not find the words. Silently, she sat down on her bed and clutched her dress to herself, all of a sudden looking cold and alone, her eyes searching and lost. She pouted a little, jumbling words on her tongue, testing the taste of them before offering them to him. Her brows were knit with deep thought and she worried her lip with her teeth. The wait for her response was agonising and Sandor nearly turned and followed in Arys’ footsteps, away from her chamber and never worthy of returning. Finally, her sweet voice tinkled through the air like a little bell.

“I don’t think that you have enough faith in yourself.”

“What?” He was staggered by her response. “What are you talking about, girl?”

She sighed and drew her knees to her chest. She no longer looked scared or hurt, just tired and a little weary.

“I don’t believe for a second that you would have let harm come to me. You’ve never hurt me. I don’t think you ever will.”

“Your faith in me is misguid-”

“My faith in you is totally reasonable,” she cut in with a scowl.

He did not respond, choosing instead to fall heavily into the little chair by her vanity table, the little chair that had been his home when he cleaned blood from her mouth before. Three times now, had he wiped blood from her lips, as though he was destined to be ever drawn to them. She had been soft and yielding each time. The only one who ever showed resistance was him. He silently scoffed at the irony.

“If you had come to my room, and I had resisted you?” she continued, “you would have stopped. I know and believe that. Now you have to as well.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

“No, I can’t. But that is how deep my faith in you goes.”

He paused and then mumbled something under his breath. He wanted to close his eyes, to fall asleep in her little chair, in her little room, in her little arms. He tipped his head backwards, over the back on the chair, and stared at the ceiling.

“What was that?” she questioned, “What did you say?”

“Sometimes, Little Bird,” he laughed bitterly, “I even surprise myself at how much hatred I am capable of.”

It was too much for Sansa. Her heart spilled over with pain and pity, and she leapt from the bed with a little cry and skipped over to where he sat. She fell at his feet and took his hand in hers, squeezing it through the hard metal of his gauntlets. He could almost feel her warmth. As he looked down at her gentle form, curled at his legs, she could have been a doe, sleeping in the nest of a vulture, ever more lovely in such a damned place. He pulled her up with a strong tug of her hand. She rose to her feet but stayed close, standing between his legs, determined to be near to him. He let out a heavy breath.

“I am not a Lord, Little Bird. I’m not even a knight.”

“I don’t care.” She put her hand in his. “I don’t care.”

He could feel her legs against his, small and soft and unwilling to escape him. He nudged at the back of her knees and she gently sat on one of his long legs, shy all of a sudden.

“You will, some day. When this is all just a memory and your life goes on...” He swallowed thickly as she leaned close to him, and he could see the moist glistening of her bottom lip as he continued, his voice husky and low,“... you’ll care that you wasted your innocence on a man like me.”

Her cheeks were tinged pink and her eyes would not meet his, and her sudden show of innocence and bashfulness moved him to the ghost of a smile. She shook her head stubbornly, her hair scattering like firelight about her face.

“I will **_never_** care,” she whispered into his mouth, “I swear it.”

With only a moment’s hesitation, he was undone.

He had gone _without_ for all of his life. He was tired of insisting upon his own unhappiness.

He grabbed the back of her head and crushed her mouth to his with the violent temper of months of desire and, with just the tiniest hint of surprise, she wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled into his kiss. His heart exploded with every pain and fire as her mouth inexpertly moved against his, so unknowing but at the same time so eager to learn, to drink in his lips as he drank in hers. Every part of his body sang with her touch and he pulled her in to meet his body with every devastating force that he knew. With one taste of her, he was lost and, somehow, he couldn't find the will to care.

He pushed harder against her, pulling her tightly into his arms, wishing with every moment that he was not wearing his armour so that he might be able to feel the flush of her breasts pressed against his chest. She was clearly inexperienced, her mouth soft and shy, so he guided her, opening her mouth with a nudge of his tongue and exploring the warm, wet recess of her lips. He could have lost all sense of restraint and reserve when he heard the little moan that echoed from her throat as he ran his tongue along hers, and when she dared to do the same to him, he nearly did.

After what felt like both moments and years all at once, he finally pulled away from her, breathless and disbelieving. Her lips were plump and swollen, her eyes glassy, and she instantly looked down at the ground with embarrassment at her libidinous state. He wanted to laugh as he could see her trying to remember her manners and her ladylike courtesies, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. He put a hand to her face and tipped it upwards to look into her eyes. He wanted to be stern and gruff, but the way she smiled shyly at him eroded his resolve and he ended up closing his eyes and resting his forehead against hers wearily.

“You’re making a big mistake girl.”

She moved from his forehead and ghosted her pretty lips over his once more before whispering with a smile:

“ _I don’t care_.”

And as he took her mouth in his once more, he knew. Everything that he had written in that letter, every saccharine, honey-dripped word that he had pledged to her was true. He had a wretched heart and a thrice damned soul, and he would gladly sacrifice his miserable life for the sake of just one moment more with his Little Bird.

Joffrey be damned – he would answer to only one master now, and her name was Sansa Stark.


	13. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion encounters Oakheart in the aftermath of last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, wow. It has been so long since I last updated and I cannot apologise more for that. Life has been a bit hectic for the last couple of months and I have experienced quite a lot of situational transition, but things have settled a bit now and I am feeling like I am in a way more stable position, so I really wanna carry this on again. I promised I wasn't abandoning it, and I still maintain that! I have enjoyed writing this so much, and I really don't want to leave it unfinished when I feel like I still have so much story to tell.
> 
> That being said, this chapter is totally crappy and no where near as good as you guys deserve for being so patient and so wondeful. I still get reviews from new readers coming through to my emails and, I gotta say, you are so amazing and you are a huge part of the reason that I picked myself up and started writing again. You made me feel really good bout myself, so thank you so much for that. But yeah, this chapter was is so lame and I apologise for that. I started writing half of it like six months ago and then left it for ages before trying to pick it up again now and ehhhhhh it just kinda sucks - what I CAN say is that this boring chapter is the catalyst for a lot of much cooler stuff to come, so don't worry, there is more rad stuff to follow :D
> 
> Once more, thank you so much everyone. Your kind words mean more to me than I can say.

“I don’t know what you’re so worried about, Little Lord,” Bronn laughed heartily with his lips to a mug of dirty brown ale, “she’ll be the King’s whore until she bores him, and will then make Joff a handsome widower. Isn’t that the way of all highborn marriages?”

Usually, Tyrion found Bronn’s scathing, classist humour a welcome distraction to the foibles of court. Today, however, his crude laughs at the expense of Sansa Stark were most unhelpful and he responded to the thoughtless joke with little but a grimace before burying his face into his own mug of swill. The ale in Flea Bottom was little more than dirty water, but Bronn would often make a point of not drinking the fine wines that were kept at the castle, turning his nose up at it when it was offered, just to be difficult. He wanted Tyrion to always remember that his place at court was not one earned by noble birth but by blood and courage.

“Besides, she probably begged poor old Ned Stark for the honour of being married to the King. They do say, be careful what you wish for.”

“All little girls want to be princesses, Bronn,” Tyrion bit back wearily, “Do you really think it’s fair to begrudge her the childish dream of a little girl?”

“These highborn ladies all marry bastards in the end. They never seem to learn - they’d be better of marrying poor farmers, or bakers, or-or-“

“Or sellswords?”

Bronn chuckled heartily at this. He was in a fine temper, and Tyrion couldn’t hold that against him. Bronn couldn’t be held accountable for his bad mood, though he was growing steadily more tired of the jabs being made at the Stark girl’s fate. He rolled a coin between his fingers and gave a weary sigh, which was met by an equally weary groan from his companion.

“By the Seven, what is it that’s got your cock in a knot?”

“At this point, Bronn, what hasn’t?” Tyrion rose in his seat to motion across the bar for another pint, before continuing with a voice heavy of burden, “Even without the dramatics of the court, we’ve got Stannis nipping ever closer at our heels, and a universally despised boyking who thinks that his misguided bravado will save the city. I feel rather entitled to my foul mood, thank you.”

“Ah, you worry too much,” Bronn said with a shake of his head, burying his face into his flagon, “With that little trick you’ve got up your sleeves, that dull king of Dragonstone doesn’t stand a chance. He’ll either return to that dead rock with his tail between his legs or die trying.”

Tyrion simply raised his eyebrow in response.

 _Perhaps_ , he later wondered as he walked through the Red Keep after several more mugs of ale, _perhaps I really am worried over nothing._ None but he had harnessed the power of the dragon as he had in his endless supply of Wildfire. Even Stannis, who, rumour had it, had given himself to the Lord of Light, would not anticipate the Hell that Tyrion could rain down upon him. With the ships advancing ever closer and the conflict snapping like wolves at their feet, he had to trust that his wits would keep him and the city safe. Indeed, they had never steered him wrong before.

Worrying about nothing, though? He knew that wasn’t true. Even without the fate of the city on his hands, he still had the matter of the lovely young Stark on his mind, and he knew for certain that _that_ was not ‘nothing’.

The poor girl seemed to be forever batting away danger and heartbreak at every turn: the viciousness of her betrothed; his family using her as a political pawn; watching the suffering of her homeland from so far away. And now, the possibility of Margaery Tyrell unseating her future on the throne? And perhaps worse, the unwanted attentions of Sandor Clegane? The girl’s safety hung in the balance, always. He had sworn to himself that he would try to keep her safe. The memory of his time with Jon Snow, with Eddard, even with Catelyn Stark only made him more resolute in this. She came from a noble family, by which he didn’t refer to their lofty ranks in the social hierarchy, but by which he meant that they were an honourable, fair and decent people who only wanted the world to run on justice instead of trickery. And while it had never worked in their favour, Tyrion was reluctant to let that all go to waste by letting harm come to the lovely, innocent Sansa Stark.

A movement ahead of him halted his thoughts and he squinted through the moonlight at the source. A white cloak flickered in the breeze as a slim figure leaned heavily against the wall, knees bent and chest heaving. Tyrion lifted his arm in greeting with a smile, recognising drunkenness when he saw it, and he called out into the night:

“Hello there! Who is that?”

The figure just turned to the voice and watched as Tyrion attempted an ungainly little jog to reach the knight who was so determined to hide in the shadows. He peered through the darkness as he approached and was finally able to discern the handsome features of Arys Oakheart staring back at him with a strange expression on his face. Tyrion continued on, unperturbed by the emptiness that seemed to have pervaded the usual charming smile on the Kingsguard knight’s face.

“Oakheart, my good fellow. What brings you out so late?”

“Oh, you know,” he replied, his voice unusually gravelly as he slurred his words, “I don’t really have much to do around here now. Might as well have a drink.”

Tyrion had the good nature to feel a little bit guilty about that. While he didn’t necessarily believe that sending someone to Dorne with Myrcella was a bad thing, it was never meant to be Oakheart. Tyrion’s plan was only ever meant to eradicate the Hound from Joffrey’s service, and his plan had been hatched to send that beast as far from Sansa as was possible. Instead, the bastard had managed not only to secure his position, but had also used his influence to be rid of Oakheart. Tyrion could not argue that his plan had been executed with a great deal of finesse, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for the man before him who was clearly feeling the sting of disgrace.

“Yes,” he replied carefully, “I can’t imagine that you are altogether thrilled with your relocation.”

Oakheart simply let out a snort of derision, rubbing aggressively at his neck as he drunk deep from the sagging wineskin in his hand. Tyrion put out his hand jovially and the knight handed it to him, remembering his manners in spite of his state. The dwarf took a sip from it, more out of a show of camaraderie than an actual desire to share his wine, before handing it back to him and saying brightly:

“Well, look at the bright side. A new home in Dorne. The weather there is warmer, the wine is stronger, and the women prettier. I have heard tales of those Sand Snakes that would make you cross your legs.”

“Vow of chastity,” Oakheart reminded him blackly.

“Well,” Tyrion replied with a twinkle, “in Dorne, who will know?”

Again, that humourless snort. Tyrion took in a lungful of the night time air and rocked on his heels uncomfortably, faintly surprised at Oakheart’s refusal to engage in pleasantries. He didn’t pretend to have much regard for anyone on the Kingsguard, save for his brother Jaime, but Oakheart had always been game for jesting the past. He had a reputation in the court for his charming nature and, despite his vow of celibacy, he’d a knack for making women’s hearts flutter.

Now, though, his expression was still and grim, even when he tried to imitate mirth, and his skin was pallid in the moonlight. Tyrion would have been quick to blame it on the wine, but something just didn’t feel right, and so he insisted upon conversing with him.

“Besides, Oakheart,” he continued, clapping him on the arm jovially, “You’re being entrusted with the safety of my most precious niece. Don’t see it as a demotion. Think of it as an important mission that only you were deemed competent enough for.”

“Not just me though, was it?” Arys countered sardonically, unable to contain his aggression, “It was never supposed to be me. That bastard, Clegane, he’s the one who should have gone.”

Tyrion’s interest was immediately piqued. He knew that Clegane had made no friends amongst his Kingsguard brethren, that was no secret. And it had not escaped Tyrion’s notice either that Clegane had handpicked Arys to accompany Myrcella. In fact, when he thought back to the last unpleasant encounter that he had had with the Hound, Oakheart’s name had appeared more than once. Why, though, was still a mystery to him, though he had the strong suspicion that the answer would be entirely relevant to his interests.

“Yes, Clegane,” Tyrion replied craftily, his tone casual but his purpose certain, “I had noticed that he seemed instrumental in your being chosen. Wasn’t that strange?”

Oakheart’s blank face instantly twisted into a distasteful snarl, as though he tasted bile at the back of his throat. Tyrion knew that he had Arys in his hands already, with just a few simple words. He pushed a little harder, stirred the pot just a little bit more.

“Seems like he had his own reasons for that, wouldn’t you say?”

“His own reasons,” Arys spat bitterly, his restraint already at the tipping point, “There’s just one fucking reason that he wants me out of the way.”

“Oh?” The Imp was the very picture of innocence. “And what could that be, my fine fellow?”

“Not ‘what’, but ‘who’,” came the hissed response.

“What do you mean by that...?” Tyrion began to ask, but his question was suddenly derailed.

Arys’ hands had fallen from his neck to his sides, where they were balled in rage and tightly wound as though they were desperate for someone deserving to target. Far from his throat, however, Tyrion could finally see the tangled mess of rags that were bound tightly around what seemed to be a messy wound.

“By the Gods, what happened there?” he asked in surprise.

Arys instantly clapped his hands back to his neck, the force of which made him hiss his pain through his teeth. His eyes darted from Tyrion to the great looming shadow of Maegor’s Holdfast and then back again as his mouth searched for the answer to a question that he seemed terrified to answer.

“How did you get that injury?” Tyrion asked again.

“Sparring,” he replied carefully after some deliberation, “I was sparring after court this afternoon. I was frustrated and I ended up losing focus on my opponent.”

“Seven hells, Oakheart, I know you don’t want to go to Dorne, but I hardly think that getting yourself killed is a better alternative.”

Arys’ expression darkened at this and he gave no reply. Again, that feeling that Tyrion couldn’t shake settled at the pit of his stomach. Did he believe the knight’s answer? The Kingsguard sparred in armour, and they used practice swords to avoid just such an accident. Knights of the Kingsguard did not grow on trees and trustworthy killers were hard to come by in the current political climate. For an extensively trained and seasoned knight such as Arys, injuries like that did not just ‘happen’, even in moments of sloppiness. No. No, Tyrion did _not_ believe Arys’ story.

“You were sparring, eh?”

“Yes.”

“This afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“In the training grounds?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Oakheart replied, growing visibly more irritable.

“Who with?”

“Oh. That was... It was with...”

“Have you forgotten? So soon?”

“No, of course not. It was Meryn Trant.”

“Really? How strange.” Tyrion’s smile was wily and he theatrically rubbed at his malformed jaw. “I say ‘strange’ because, in my memory, Trant was stationed outside the Holdfast for most of the day.”

In truth, Tyrion had no idea if that was correct of not. He paid little attention to the comings and goings of the Kingsguard. He had taken a rather big risk in playing with that lie, but he was instantly rewarded for it by the blood draining from Oakheart’s face. He shook his head and jabbered quickly:

“I must have been mistaken, my Lord. Perhaps it was Preston Greenfield. In fact, I’m sure it-”

“Come now, Arys. You should be wise enough to know when you are defeated. So, tell me – what happened to you?”

Arys breathed out heavily and sank back against the wall before taking a deep draught from his wineskin, which was soon emptied. He looked down at Tyrion from the corner of his eye.

“ _He_ did it. The Hound.”

There it was. Tyrion had to bite back the triumph that swelled in his chest. He had been waiting for so long for the Hound to make a mistake – Sandor Clegane was a careful man, one who had little to lose but his own life, and so fealty was of the utmost importance to his survival in this world. But now, all because of one seemingly unimportant young girl, his composure was unravelling like a coil of rope, one that, the Seven willing, would soon be strung around Clegane’s neck.

“What did he do, Oakheart? And why did he do this?”

“I... I cannot divulge the details of what happened.” Arys’ expression had become a curious thing, open and empathic yet tight and shifty all at once. Tyrion, though, was disinterested in Arys himself. He didn't care about Oakheart at all, but was desperate for the secrets he held. The knight’s reluctance to explain his injuries could be the fulcrum between the Imp and the justice he so desired, and he could not allow this opportunity to slip through his fingers.

“And why not?”

“Shamed though I am to admit it, my Lord, the King’s dog has leverage over me that I would not gamble with.”

He pushed himself away from the wall, his hand on his neck and his movements heavy. Tyrion recognised defeat in Oakheart’s countenance, bitter and hateful though it was, and the sign of it was like a dagger to the Imp’s pride.

“Indeed,” Oakheart continued, his voice like acid, “I think it would be wise for me to terminate this inquiry, if I may.”

“No, Arys, you mustn’t-” Tyrion called quickly after the knight, before he collected himself, wary of sounding so desperate. He cleared his throat and began again. “If a knight of the Kingsguard has done something to betray his vows, they must face the justice that they deserve. You needn’t be afraid of Sandor Cle-”

“I am not _afraid_ of that misshapen bastard,” Arys suddenly snapped, turning back to the Imp and snarling it through his bared teeth.

“Then tell me what he did to you.”

“I cannot.” Arys’ word was final. Tyrion could sense it and it was agony to him. “I cannot my Lord. I am sorry.”

He turned away from Tyrion and began to slink into the shadows, but suddenly turned back and called out:

“But, my Lord?”

“Yes?”

“You know, don’t you? All of it, it’s all for the Stark girl. She isn’t safe while he is alive. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Tyrion nodded gravely at the knight, whose expression turned to one of relief. Oakheart returned the nod and then disappeared off into the courtyard, leaving the Imp in the deafening silence of his own difficult decisions, drinking in the information and measuring out just what he wanted to do with it.

 _All for the Stark girl_. Of course Tyrion knew that. But, somehow, hearing it from the mouth of another validated his righteousness and his determination. He knew it. He _knew_ it. He felt anger building in the core of himself, hot like fire and blood and ash, enormous in its pressure and rawness; she was so blameless, so _innocent_. Sandor Clegane was a monster in so many ways, a vicious, hateful creature who spoke only in the language of death and vengeance. Was there no limit to the atrocities that that demon would commit? Was nothing sacred in the eyes of the Hound, not even the purity of her youth or the sweetness of her hope?

This could continue no more. He wouldn’t allow Sansa to see the same tragedies that so many girls had seen before her, the violence, rage, and hatred of men. She was too precious, too tragic, too kind.

Before he even realised it, he was moving through the blackness of the night, his purpose set on the imposing heights of the White Sword Tower. Tyrion would see the Hound brought to justice, if it was the last thing he ever did.


	14. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After bidding farewell to Myrcella, the city erupts in chaos as the smallfolk revolt against starvation and poverty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who gave kudos or left a review last chapter, it was lovely to hear from you all and you were all so delightfully nice <3
> 
> Just a little trigger warning - I have borrowed heavily from a mix of the book and the TV show for my depiction of the Riot of King's Landing, so y'all know that Sansa has a pretty bad time of it.

The sun was low on the horizon, melting like butter in the water of the harbour and painting the sky all the colours of a bonfire. Myrcella, for her youth, was doing her cold, stony mother justice by maintaining her regal command over her emotions in the face of saying goodbye to her family. She was quiet and dignified in her farewells, though anyone watching closely could see that concrete composure wane ever so slightly when she embraced her gentle younger brother Tommen, and when her beloved uncle caressed her cheek, and when her doting mother kissed her hard on the forehead, fingers curling around the young princess’ arms as though she wanted never to let her go.

As Sansa watched ripples emerge in the still lake of the Queen’s face, her heart was not able to resist the swell of pity. Oh, of course, she was a cold, manipulative and hateful woman, and Sansa held nothing but resentment for her in that respect. But she was also a mother, one who loved her children deeply and endlessly, who did everything she could to see them safe, and she could not hate her for that. She thought of her own lady mother, who was more wolf than her Tully blood would admit, and, for just a brief moment, she could almost see a resemblance in the two women.

She let her eyes drag along the royal procession, from Cersei and Myrcella down to where Joffrey sat, only a few metres away, close enough for her to hear his grumbling and see the boredom in his cold eyes. It was unsurprising to Sansa that his own farewell had been curt, perfunctory and mandatory, a loathsome task burdened to him by his uncle who had no doubt threatened him with a childish scolding if he did not at least feign brotherly sadness over the loss of his sister. The idea almost made her laugh – for all of the mistrust she placed in the Imp, she respected the way that he was able to reduce Joffrey to the snivelling child that he truly was inside.

Subtly, she then finally allowed herself to glance quickly at the tall absence of light that, as ever, stood close by the King, watching the spectacle impassively. She daren’t look too long, scared of meeting his gaze, but she granted herself the liberty of just a moment to ease the tension in her stomach.

A couple of days had passed since the night that Arys had forced his way into her room. It all seemed somehow like a dream, or a nightmare, or something in between that couldn’t be so easily measured. The struggle had happened so fast, so immediately, that all she had to go on were snatches of memory that were coated with blood: being pushed to the bed, her teeth at Oakheart’s throat, the metallic taste on her tongue as his neck fell apart in her mouth. It had all been so quick until the Hound had appeared in her doorway, when everything suddenly seemed to drag to a halt, and her breaths had slowed along with her heart.

The moment he saw her, he had taken her into his arms in a way that felt so natural and protective. She had tried to fantasise about it in the days that followed, tried to paint him as the romantic hero who swept her off her feet in the face of danger, but in reality it had felt warm and safe and desperate and true. She was sure that it hadn’t been desire or bravado that had caused him to reach out to her, but simple instinct, just as it felt like instinct to crawl into his arms.

She had kissed him, she remembered as blood rushed to her face, kissed him hard in an effort to feel anything but the terror that was turning her legs to jelly. Her first kiss had been taken from her by a monster disguised as an angel, but she had willingly given this one to quite the opposite. It was so different to the wet, empty things that she had shared with Joffrey – the Hound had captured her in those big, strong hands, had pulled her into himself as though he was scared to let her go. It had felt so wonderfully _real_ , from the rusty scratch of his stubble against her skin to the sharp taste of wine when she met his tongue, and her heart had sunk somewhere low and forbidding where it throbbed with urgency.

The books, the stories, the songs: they were all so very, very wrong. It wasn’t all gallantry, and there were no gentlemen when times were fraught. There was only the strong and the desperate. There had been blood in her mouth, and unwanted hands on her thighs, and curses spilling from the mouths of both heroes and villains. Was that romance?

Unlike the tales, the Hound had not chastely taken her favour and disappeared with her heart. He had devoured her, the lips of a wrecked man upon her own, without honour or nobility, and she had craved every moment of it. She had yearned for the touch of a man so unlike the princes of old, so broken and scarred and ruinous that it made her want to weep, and, if she was given even the slightest chance, she would have it again, and again.

The Hound shifted his stare from the ship that Myrcella was alighting upon, the setting sun irritating his eyes, and the movement made Sansa avert her own gaze instantly.

After he had kissed her, and pulled away leaving her glassy eyed and overcome, he had released his firm, decisive grip on her skinny arms and taken two steps back. She could never erase her silly, soppy smile by design, but as soon as she saw his expression, her face fell. He looked troubled, stormy even, and his eyes dropped to the floor, reluctant to meet hers. Silence had then descended like a dead weight.

“My Lord...” she had whispered into the cold stillness.

“Lock your door,” he’d finally responded, turning away, “and don’t open it, even if someone knocks.”

“Must you go?”

She hadn’t meant for her voice to crack the way it did, hadn’t intended to sound so pitiful. She was glad she did though, because he had paused then, turned back to her and almost smiled. He walked back to her, put her little face in his big hand and gently rubbed his thumb across her cheek. His face was unreadable, but she was relieved to find that his gentleness remained.

“Must you leave?” she asked again, her voice just barely louder than the quiet.

“Yes, Little Bird,” he replied in a murmur, “you are safe now. You should rest. It’s been a long night.”

Sansa had covered his hand with her own and closed her eyes. He was already gone, already so far away from her, even when he was right there. She just wanted to keep the memory of him for a little longer. But then, it was taken away, and he retreated from her room, giving her one last look before he closed the door behind himself.

She put her hand to her cheek and, though it was now warmed by the diminishing sun, her skin could almost remember when he had held her.

She had seen him the next day, and the day after that. Seen him, been close to him, even touched him, once. But something was strange. The first time she had seen him, they had been all alone, and their footsteps had echoed in the hall. She swore that she almost knew it was him before she had seen him, recognised it from the strong, long strides she could hear. Her skin had begun to prickle with anticipation and, when he had turned the corner and started to approach her, she was sure that she was going experience the same wonderful, terrifying bliss of the night before. Her smile was wide and she slowed her steps to a dawdle.

As he got closer, though, it became more and more apparent that he would not even meet her gaze, almost as though he hadn’t even registered her presence. His pace was consistent, his stare directly forward. She had waited until he got close enough to hear her voice, small and quiet, as she called out:

“My Lord?”

“Lady Stark,” he replied gruffly.

He just kept on walking, and she watched him leave until he was gone, her face unable to hide the hurt and confusion that she felt.

The next time they crossed paths, she made the mistake of trying to be more direct. He had, in the past, doubted the sincerity of her attentions, so she thought that, perhaps, he just needed a little bit of encouragement, proof that her feelings hadn’t changed. So, when he passed by her again, she instead thrust out her hand and grabbed his wrist, stopping him in his strides and pulling him toward her. As soon as she did it, she knew it had been a mistake. His eyes had been stony and he had quickly pushed her into a dark little alcove and growled:

“Little Bird, what the hell are you playing at?”

She was alarmed, to say the least. His hands were tight on her wrists and his face showed none of the gentleness that she had seen only two days prior. She shook her head in confusion.

“I, w-well, I just wanted to...”

“Put us both in mortal danger?” he cut in, his tone laced with fury, “you want to be the death of us?”

“N-no, of course not...”

“Use your head, girl,” he fumed, before quickly stepping away and retreating, as though nothing had happened. Sansa’s heart had felt more wounded than she could ever recall, and she had raced back to her quarters where she could bury her head in her pillow and weep without forfeiting her pride before all of these _stupid_ men.

And now, standing before the sea in the setting sun, Sansa could hardly even look at him. She wasn’t an idiot – of course she knew why he was behaving so cagey and so careful. She knew that her behaviour could have had serious consequences, and she didn’t blame the Hound for his sharpness. But, by the Seven, she was desperate for just a moment of something, _anything_ to still the queasy butterflies in her stomach.

Myrcella was finally on the boat, waving her goodbyes over the side and calling to the ones she held dear. Sansa was almost sad to see her go. She and the little Princess had little to do with one another, but she was famously sweet and good-natured. It had been nice to know that she was not entirely surrounded by untrustworthy Lannisters, but also ones with a little bit of heart. With the ropes unmoored and the anchor raised, the ship slowly moved away from the harbour.

From behind the little princess, a figure moved toward the side of the ship, and Sansa squinted to recognise who it was. When his white cape billowed out from behind him, though, her heart twisted with discomfort. She had not seen Arys Oakheart since that night, when he had slinked away in disgrace. Even today, he had been nowhere to be seen. She had rather hoped that she would be fortuitous enough to never lay eyes on him again. _At least_ , she thought, _he is already beyond my reach, perhaps never to return_.

He was not looking at her though. She followed his gaze and found it fixed solidly on the Hound, and the hatred there was unmistakable, even as he shrank into the distance. Clegane raised his hand in farewell for the first time all afternoon, his hand lazily dismissing the disgraced knight with an undisguised hint of arrogance. She would have laughed, had she not looked back and seen, before he disappeared from the deck of the ship, the strange smile that Arys gave, a smile that was unbefitting his position. It was a smile laced with poison and secrets, and it burned itself into Sansa’s memory.

“You mew like a suckling babe,” Joffrey suddenly spat at his brother, tearing Sansa from her thoughts and distracting her from her unease.

It was true, Tommen’s princely composure was almost nonexistent at this point, and his face was almost Lannister crimson with the earnestness of his tears. Sansa’s heart was too kind to think ill of a boy whose love for his sister was so honest, especially when Joffrey could barely even feign interest in the departure of his only sister.

“Princes aren’t supposed to cry,” the king continued with a lofty sneer.

And in that moment, days of torment balled up in her fists, swelled in her heart and clenched in her teeth. Her face was cold as she turned to Joffrey and said, with a voice like needles:

"Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon, and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound."

How dare he, she wondered, how dare he judge the love of others when he holds nothing in his own heart but hatred? She could barely stand to even look at him, but she looked down to Tommen, who gazed at her through his tears and almost managed a smile, which she returned with tight lips. Joffrey, however, was not impressed by her remark.

"Be quiet, or I'll have Ser Meryn give _you_ a mortal wound."

Sansa did not respond. What was the point? Most of what Joffrey said was just empty threats and, even if he did set his knights upon her, as he had before, he could inflict little pain to her that he had not already. Somehow, she didn’t fear the physical threats of Joffrey nearly as much as she did the mental torment that he held over her, day in and day out.

The procession began to disperse from the harbour, heading toward their horses to make their journey back to the city. Sansa had ridden a gentle chestnut mare who whinnied beautifully as she approached it, reaching out her hand to caress its velvety muzzle. It was tacked up and ready for her to mount, so she looked around for someone to help her into her seat. She was surprised when she turned around and found herself within inches of a silver breastplate, and more surprised still when she looked up and found the scarred face of the Hound looking down at her.

“Can I help you?” he asked quietly, inaudible to all but her, and he gestured towards her pony.

She almost wanted to turn her nose up at him, deny him the pleasure of lifting her onto the saddle, play hard-to-get like she had with so many silly boys back at Winterfell. The Hound was no boy though, and she was sure it would break her own heart as much as his to feign disinterest in his request. She smiled shyly and nodded, and he encircled her little waist with his hands to lift her onto the back of her patient little mare. When she was comfortable in the saddle, Sansa was sure that his hands lingered a little longer than was strictly necessary, and she had to suppress the unfettered beam that threatened to break through her mask of indifference.

“Thank you, Ser.”

“I’m no Ser,” the Hound replied, though there was no malice in his words. They almost felt like a joke, a private joke shared between the two of them, and Sansa caught his eye purposefully before he turned away from her to relinquish his own beast of a horse from the unfortunate stableboy. The chestnut mare put her ears back irritably as Stranger reared on his back legs and let out a terrible cry, scaring the stableboy to no end as he gingerly held onto the leadrope.

The great, rearing stallion was a handsome monster, enormous in his blackness and awful in his might. His show of disquiet was beginning to cause unrest amongst the other horses and, as Stranger kicked backwards irritably, the boy who had meant to control him released him in fear and backed away. Fortunately, as soon as the leadrope swung away from the boy, the Hound caught it and pulled the horse down from his temper.

The transformation was incredible. The courser’s high-pitched braying and aggressive rearing halted the instant that the Hound took the rope, and he put his head down as meekly as a colt. It was miraculous, really, the quiet control that the knight had over his tempestuous stallion, but it made Sansa smile to see another creature recognise his gentleness.

When all were in their seats, Joffrey mounted atop a handsome grey palfrey and riding beside her, the procession began their ride through the city. It was a strangely quiet affair, unlike those that Sansa had experienced in the days of Robert Baratheon. Things were not perfect under his reign, even she knew that, but the feel of the city had been brighter, happier, full of more hope and joy. The smallfolk had cheered as they had rode through the city, and it had made royal life feel so very glamorous. Now, though, the city watch lined the streets to hold back the crowds of peasants and commoners, and she could see that their faces were sour.

Many seemed gaunt and grey of face, their skin ashen and their bones prominent. Sansa knew a little of how the war was affecting the less fortunate, but she had heard lady’s maids whispering about the lack of food and supplies that were making their way into the city, ever since the Reach and the Riverlands had been cut off by war. She thought of all the meals that she had picked at, fussed over and turned her nose up in the past few days, when she had let her own problems pervade her thoughts and ruin her appetite. As she looked at those angry, starving faces, she felt a strange sort of guilt for being in the minority who had so much, when the majority had so little.

Joffrey, however, barely even cast them a glance as he rode on through the streets. On the approach to Aegon’s High Hill, the last stretch before they reached the safety of the Red Keep, Sansa was relieved at first to hear smatterings of ‘Hail’ and cheers of the King’s name, but when they actually reached the crowd, she realised that for every one person cheering in earnest, a hundred more stared out of the mass with hollow, angry eyes.

Out of the moody silence, a wailing cry could suddenly be heard. The sound was abhorrent, a screeching, moaning howl that seemed to move ever closer through the crowd. Suddenly, a woman burst through the line of the City Watch, barrelling her way between two guards whilst clutching something tightly to her chest. She fell at the feet of the King’s horse and the procession stopped abruptly as she lay prostrate on the floor, heaving with sobs.

It wasn’t until she thrust the thing she was holding into the air that Sansa realised what was wrong.

Held aloft for the King to see was the woman’s child, cold and still in its death. It was pudgy and bloated, with glassy eyes and a face tinged with blue, and the sight of it made Sansa want to retch. The woman was maddened by her grief, and her eyes were wild and bloodshot as she screamed about her starvation. The poor child, the innocent creature, hung from the woman’s bony hands like a rag doll, and Sansa’s eyes filled with tears as she realised the extent of the smallfolk’s misery.

She leaned over to Joffrey, who at least had the good grace to look bewildered, and whispered desperately:

“She is starving, my Lord, her family is starving! Maybe you could offer her some-some... recompense or...” She trailed off, hardly knowing what they could offer someone whose child had died because of the King’s wargames, but Joffrey at least pulled out his leather purse and fumbled around for some coin.

He pulled out a silver Stag, and Sansa almost wanted to roll her eyes – that was how he valued the loss of a child? A single silver Stag? That would barely buy the family a bushel of corn. To Joffrey, a starved baby was not even worth a Dragon. He tossed the coin down to the wretched woman and, to Sansa’s horror, it hit the dead child on its head and rolled away into the crowd. She had to put a hand to her mouth to keep from losing her composure, but the woman seemed too caught up in her grief to register the King’s failed attempt at compensation for her loss.

From behind them, Sansa heard the Queen call out in what she could only assume was Cersei’s best attempt at sympathy:

“Leave her, your Grace. She’s beyond our help, poor thing.”

And with that comment, Sansa’s world exploded into movement and noise and anger.

The woman flung her dead child down with a lunatic wailing and pointed at Cersei, haughty and regal on her palomino mare, with her face twisted in hatred.

“Whore!” the madwoman screamed as knights of the City Watch began to drag her back from the street, “Kingslayer’s whore! Brotherfucker!”

And more noise now, more movement from the crowd who lined the streets and glared at the King with hatred in their eyes. They began to pick up the chanting, the angry, hideous claims, until the shouting became just a mess of noise. The cacophony became louder and the pushing and shoving against the line of knights who guarded the street were becoming more violent. Sansa’s mare began to whinny and stamp at the floor as though she wanted to make a break for it.

Suddenly, she heard a slapping noise of impact from close beside her and, when she turned to the King, she was horrified to see one side of his face splattered with dung that an angry commoner had flung from the street. The King touched a shaky hand to his cheek and inspected what he found with white hot anger building behind his expression of disbelief. Though it was obviously impossible to tell just where the attack had come from, Joffrey instantly began screaming out:

“Who threw that!? A hundred golden Dragons to the man who gives him up!”

A hundred golden Dragons, Sansa scoffed with incredulity, to find the man who dared dishonour the crown, but just a single silver Stag to help a mourning mother. Joffrey’s screaming from beside her was only making the crowd roar with more hatred and anger, and the City Watch was struggling to keep them all confined behind their barrier.

“Please, your Grace, let him go,” Sansa pleaded, fear gripping her heart.

"Bring me the man who flung that filth!" Joffrey roared to no one and everyone, "He'll lick it off me or I'll have his head. Dog, you bring him here!"

Sansa watched in horror as the Hound dismounted Stranger in a way that she could only describe as irritable yet obedient, and she had to bite her lip to stop herself from begging him to stay safe. He could not move far, however, for the wall of people was closing in and the City Watch’s barriers were at breaking point. He began to push through the crowd roughly, giving into the whims of the stupid, vengeful king, but Sansa heard Lord Tyrion shout out to him:

“Clegane, leave off, the man is long fled.”

For that, Sansa could have kissed the misshapen Imp, because the Hand’s command made The Hound stop in his tracks and turn back. In the very next instant, though, Joffrey was wailing his fury once more, screaming useless commands at his knight.

“I want him!” he howled like the spoiled child that he was, “He was up there! Dog, cut through them and bring-”

It was no use anymore. The crowd had become so incensed and so violent that they broke through the City Watch and spilled out into the street, and soon there were seemingly hundreds of people swarming around her horse and pushing up against her legs, putting out their hands to her and screaming out things like ‘bastard monster!’, ‘whore!’, ‘brotherfucker!’, ‘freak’ and ‘halfman!’, howling out their hatred for the Lannisters as though their zeal might fill their bellies instead of food. But, in odd little catches, Sansa could have sworn she also hear people chanting out her brother’s name, ‘King Robb!’ and ‘The Young Wolf!’. Even amongst the anger and the terror, she couldn’t help but feel her heart flutter at that.

Soon though, the hands began grabbing and pushing, desperate to get close to the King and reach up with open palms for anything the Royal procession could offer. The violent chanting turned from slurs and curses to just one thing, one plea that spread through the mob like wildfire: ‘bread’.

They howled and wailed for it, ‘bread!’, ‘give us bread!’, ‘feed us!’, and they moved in tighter and suddenly everything felt so close and so claustrophobic. People were touching Sansa’s legs and pulling at her dress, and she began to call out to them from atop her horse:

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I have nothing for you!”

She tried to direct her pony through the crowd, but a strong tug at the bottom of her skirt dragged her down and, with a squeal, she slid ungracefully from her saddle and onto the muddy ground. She scrabbled to her feet and tried to stay close to her horse, but she could hear Lord Tyrion command his sister:

“Back to the castle. Now.”

And for once in their lives, Cersei didn’t even try to argue. The horses brayed in fear as they were swamped on all sides, but the procession began moving once more. Sansa tried to move along with them, but all around her were angry faces, screaming, foaming mouths, and flailing hands that were grabbing at everything they could reach. She could hardly see what was happening around her as she was pushed around and flung amongst the mob, but as the yelling grew louder and the smallfolk became more violent, she heard the dreaded sound of screams over the chanting, and at her feet she could see smears of blood trickling into the muddy puddles.

As her heart pounded with terror and claustrophobia, she moved into any space that was available between the people, finding herself further and further from the rest of the procession as she went. She broke into a stumbling run, picking up her skirts in one hand and reaching out with the other to try and grab onto something stable. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she reached one of the buildings that lined the street and pressed her face against the cool stone, heaving with her breaths and trying to stop herself from crying out in terror.

She forced herself to keep going, to get away from the street and find somewhere dark and quiet to lay low until the unrest settled. She felt her way along the wall until she reached a dark, narrow alleyway that she slipped quickly down, checking over her shoulder to ensure that she had gone unnoticed. She knew that she had to stay out of sight, remain anonymous in the mob and stay undetected. She dreaded to think of what would happen if one of the angry peasants stumbled upon her, part of the nobility, someone with a full belly and clean clothes. With the screaming and roaring still stinging her ears from the street, and with the smallfolk half maddened by the hunger and injustice, she didn’t dare to even guess what they were capable of.

The alleyway was empty for as far as she could see, so she ran through it frantically, desperate to be as far from the busy streets as possible. As she moved along, though, she began to hear footsteps from near by, echoing noises that seemed ever closer. She hardly dared to look behind her, but when she heard the sounds of licentious caterwauling, she tossed a glance over her shoulder. Her breath stuck in her throat when she saw three ragged men close by, moving along the narrow alleyway like spiders in the dark.

“Come back here, King’s whore!” one yelled out hatefully.

“I’ll fuck you bloody before I send you back to the King!” growled another.

Sansa let out a cry of anguish and pushed her legs as fast as they would go. She couldn’t believe it, the hatred capable of these men who didn’t even know her. She wanted to turn to them, plead with them, make them realise that she was as much a victim of the Royal family as they were. She wanted them to realise that she was not the enemy, but she knew that her desperate entreaties would only make them angrier. She had heard Lady Tanda Stokeworth crying out for her daughter before she absconded from the street, and Sansa had little faith in Lollys’ chances at the hands of the mob. She couldn’t – she wouldn’t – let herself meet a similar fate.

At her first opportunity, she dived through an open doorway, and then turned and turned and turned around corners and through entryways, growing steadily more lost and more desperate. They were close by, she knew they were, and their disgusting howls were becoming more violent and more angry as she made their chase an impossible task. She had never run so fast or so furiously in her life and her lungs burned raw with the exertion. She knew that she mustn’t give into her exhaustion though; she had to keep fighting for her life.

But, to her horror, as she darted blindly through a dark little doorway, she stumbled into a dead end, tripping on hay as she realised that she had turned the corner into a dingy little stable. She struggled to her feet, looking wildly around for a door, or a window, or _anything_ through which she could miraculously escape. Her breaths were bloody and ragged as she began to panic, her whole body heaving with dread as she realised that she was trapped, and the monsters nearly had her in their clutches.

“She’s in here!” came the cry as one of the men descended upon her hiding place.

Sansa tried to back away, but the three men were upon her, their eyes savage with either drink, or hunger, or hatred for everything that she stood for. She felt the wall against her back, tears streaming down her face as she cried out hoarsely:

“Please... please leave me alone! I’ve done nothing to you!”

And then she felt a hand tight around her neck, squeezing the life out of her until she fell to the ground as she tried to scream.

“Please!” she repeated in a squeal, “Please!”

“Shut up!” growled one of them, before striking her savagely about the face so that she fell backwards to the floor. The other two men took this chance to grab her legs and hold them apart from one another as she struggled like a wild thing caught in a snare, every muscle in her body convulsing with the desperate need to flee. The third man laughed heartily from behind his empty gums, his eyes cruel and sadistic as he took pleasure in pinning her down.

“You ever been fucked, girl?” he hissed gratingly, the question convulsing in Sansa’s stomach like bile.

She simply whimpered in response, shaking her head again and again, begging with every last ounce of energy for mercy, praying for deliverance from the hands of these monsters. The man positioned himself between her shaking legs and began fumbling with his trouser laces with a filthy grin, and Sansa almost gave herself up for lost.

But then, when all seemed hopeless, she heard the sound of heavy armour, saw a hulking shadow erase the light from the doorway and listened with tears of gratitude filling her eyes as she heard the voice that she had desperately prayed for.

“ _Get the fuck off of her_.”


	15. Sandor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Don't have a real good excuse for this being suuuuuper late, but I was in Iceland for a few weeks (GO THERE, IT IS SO BEAUTIFUL) and got a really bad case of the flu and then, if I'm being a hundred percent honest, i just couldn't get this chapter to work, you know? Eh, anyway, here it is! As ever, you guys are so wonderful for being so patient. Thank you for your kind words and comments, they make me so incredibly happy and flattered.

Hers was the first face he looked for when the crowd turned into a mob. As soon as they had broken through their barriers, he had tried to push his way back through to find her, to protect her, to make sure that no harm could come to his Little Bird. She had a habit of attracting trouble, and he knew enough of what angry men were capable of to be concerned by the swelling horde of hungry peasants. Curses were flowing through his mind and spilling from his mouth as he barged his way through the half-mad skeletons but, once he caught sight of the lovely redhead earnestly offering her kind words to those that she was in no position to help, his heart eased its frantic beating ever so slightly.

He used Stranger, who was braying and snapping indignantly at anyone who dared to come too close, as his landmark to lead him back to the Royal procession. The peasants were crowding him, closer than ever the smallfolk had dared to, so close that he could feel their madness and longing through groping hands, could hear it in their broken cries. They were starving, and it was something evident to anyone who looked close enough: their eyes were sunken with shadows, their lips dry and chapped, their teeth like pegs in empty mouths. They looked little better than walking corpses, and he almost sympathised, but the tugging and dragging at his Little Bird could not be forgiven. He kept his eyes firmly fixed to her, not allowing her to fall from his sight lest she be overcome and he lose her to the tidal wave of hands and eerie faces.

He was sure that most of them barely even recognised him, blinded by their desperation, else he was sure that they would know better than to try to appeal to his heart. He continued to shoulder his way back through, ignoring the smallfolk’s cries of ‘bread’ as well as the idiot demands he could still hear Joffrey flinging around as though he still had a handle on the situation. It was stifling, pressed close with so many people, but he shouldered his way through with his eyes on the prize, trying to ignore his discomfort and the mounting din around him.

Suddenly though, he felt fingers on his face, searching and reaching across his chin and finding their way to the angry, knotted scar tissue. In a heartbeat, his temper broke and he grabbed at the wrist that was stretched out to him, violently snatching it away in defence. He was sure he could hear the frail bone snap and crunch beneath the hard force of his gauntlet, before an agonised cry, and he tore his gaze away for a second from Sansa to look into the eyes of the woman howling in pain.

She was clutching at the broken bone, the papery skin already turning an ugly purple colour, and Sandor was amazed to find an apology on the tip of his tongue as he realised what he had done. The woman was already half mad with hunger, but now, as her hand hung limply from her stick-thin arm, she withered away to nothing, crumpling to the ground like a fallen autumn leaf. As she washed away in the ebb and flow of the crowd, the Hound turned to look back, the weight of his guilt suddenly lumbered about him like a lad weight. Where had this feeling come from? When did he start caring about the plight of the pathetic smallfolk? He knew the answer, though he was reluctant to admit to it. In the back of his mind, a pair of gentle blue eyes filled with tears at the destruction he wrought, and he found himself ashamed.

All at once, as he thought of the Little Bird, his heart began to race and he turned back to the Royal procession to seek her out. He had only taken his eyes off of her for a moment, barely a second, but as his eyes darted across the horses, from the bitter, wailing idiot King to his steely-eyed mother, he could not see Sansa’s flame of red hair anywhere. The gentle little mare was braying in panic but her rider was nowhere to be seen.

In a blind panic, Sandor pushed his way through the rest of the smallfolk who stood between him and his horse, no longer paying any mind to the balled up fists and dirty nails that were dragging at his face. In the back of his mind, he could feel sharp jabs and scrapes on his skim and his scars, but he could think of only one thing: he wouldn’t allow any harm to come to Sansa. His terrible courser stood stamping and screaming his displeasure at all that came near him, but he stilled when the Hound finally reached him, putting a gauntleted hand at his neck and soothing the beast.

“I’m here,” Sandor murmured gravely, “I’m here.”

The horse chuffed out a breath through his nose and bowed his head a little. Sandor went to Stranger’s side, his hand tracing the muscular curve of the steed’s enormous body, and then he swiftly hooked his foot into the stirrup and pulled himself to standing, straining to stare across the crowd. Stranger lurched a little as the saddle sagged at the lopsided weight, but soon righted himself, allowing the Hound to exploit the benefit of his horse’s height.

As he stared across the mob from his rudimentary vantage point, Sandor was almost shocked by the true extent of the madness ensuing. From the belly of the beast, it seemed like just a lot of ranting peasants, venting their unhappiness; from this view, however, the roiling tidal wave of violence was plain to see. As he heard a bloodcurdling scream, he caught a glimpse, further down the procession, of the High Septon being dragged viciously from his wailing pony. The enormous man was clutching at his reins desperately, yanking at them to try and stay in his saddle, but the crowd overwhelmed him and the bridle slipped from his grasp. His agonised shrieks continued long after his attackers descending upon him, like a hungry swarm of roaches, writhing and grasping a tearing at everything they could reach. It wasn’t until he saw the bloody remains of an arm being held aloft like a trophy that Sandor turned away. Even he, who knew human rage better than most, was unnerved by what the mob had become.

He turned about, searching desperately for any glimpse of his flame-haired Little Bird, catching sight of the various horrors: the plain, sad little Stokeworth creature, crying as she was carried off by vulgar men with cruel intentions; Greenfield, one of his own comrades, fighting franticly against too many men, as they brandished knives and pinned him down; countless bodies of smallfolk littering the streets, the dusty road turning red with the blood of the hungry.

But then, to his relief, he saw the sunlight glow red in the corner of his eye and, if he squinted in the afternoon light, he could see the Stark girl pressed flush against the buildings, grabbing onto the bricks for dear life, her breaths ragged with adrenaline and fear and panic. _Just stay there_ , he willed her, wishing he could call out to her, _just stay there, my girl, and I will come for you._ But life was not that kind and, as the crowd heaved around her, she felt her way to the nearest alleyway and slipped down it quickly, escaping from Sandor’s view and into the darkness.

The Hound cursed aloud and jumped heavily down from Stranger’s stirrups to fight his way to the direction of the alleyway. It wasn’t her fault – he could see the logic in trying to disappear into the shadows and hide until the worst of it was over. What she couldn’t have known, though, was that the dank little alleyways of King’s Landing were a filthy little rabbit warren where the worst went to lurk. They were the sort of people who would lie in wait for their prey to run right by them, ignorant in their presence until they decided to strike. Sandor dreaded those people reaching his Little Bird before he did.

He had no time for a conscience or to discern the poor and the hungry from the vicious mob. He drew his sword and began swinging, blindly hacking at all and any who stood in his way. She had been so close, almost close enough for him to have called out to her, made her know that he was coming, but she had slipped away from him all the same.

And all he could think of, as he fought his way to the alley, was the way he had treated her in the days that had past, the way he had spoken to her when she had tried to come to him. He had kept his distance from her, acted coldly, even snapped at her, but none of it was designed to _hurt_ her. He wouldn’t see any harm come to her for his sake. Staying away had seemed like the only way to make sure that she would be safe. But the hurt in her eyes when he rejected her attentions... He was sure that if he had a heart, it would have broken.

That night, the night that Arys had tried to force himself on her, the night that Sansa had held his ruined face in her delicate little hands and bestowed her kiss upon him... He had walked away from her that night and agonised over how to keep her safe. Now that she was his and he was hers, there wasn’t a eunuch’s chance in a brothel that he was going to let anything happen to her. He had felt her supple lips on his the whole night through, one moment filled with heat and lust, the next with the cold inevitability of vulnerability and loss. He had only wanted to create the illusion of indifference, to make sure that no one suspected...

Now though? Now that she was so close, yet so far away from him, he only wished he could do the last few days over again. There was a thousand different ways that he would do things differently, but every single one of them ended with Sansa in his arms, his mouth on hers, her auburn hair falling from his hands like the tumbles of rope that bound his life to hers. How he had rejected her affection was now a mystery to him, and the single stupidest thing that he had ever done. The idea that something might happen to her, that she might die thinking that he didn’t want her, made him feel sick to his stomach. That young, innocent little thing wanted _him_ , and he had turned her away... He deserved to lose her.

But he _couldn’t_ , he reminded himself savagely as he finally burst through the periphery of the crowd, at long last standing at the rotten mouth of the alleyway that held his Little Bird hostage. He couldn’t afford to lose her now, because the consequences could be the end of her. He, the undeserving wretch, had to fight for _her_ , whether he deserved her or not. He sheathed his sword and began to run, listening out for her footsteps, or the echoing of her panicked breaths in the emptiness of the dark.

As he ran, turning corners, staring round bends and making judgements of directions that he had no authority to make, his temper was mounting. He couldn’t guess where she had scurried to, what dark little route she had tried to hide down, but for all he knew he was only getting further and further away from her. He couldn’t possibly stop though, couldn’t allow himself to give up; he kept running and running and running, only praying that he was close on the heels of the scared little Stark.

As he took a left at a turn, he stopped short when he was sure he could hear rushing footsteps and, a noise that chilled him to the bone, aggressive laughter. He turned on his heel, turning back so quickly that he nearly stumbled over his own feet, and he raced toward the sound, following the chorus of echoes that mocked him through the hollowed out darkness. His armour clanked loudly as he ran hell-for-leather over the dirty ground, but he strained to listen out for anything that helped him find his girl.

Finally, he found himself staring down a long passage that ended in brick and stank of manure. It was a dead end, and not a soul could be seen. He roared out his anguish, throwing an enraged fist at the wall and slumping against it hopelessly. She could have been _anywhere_ , and _anything_ could have been happening to her, and it was his fault. He had been so sure she was down here, was so convinced that he would find her here, was praying that she would be unharmed. His jaw clenched hard with the feeling of bitter self-loathing; it anything happened to her, _anything_...

Suddenly, he heard a scream echo down the alleyway, a scream with the soft timbre of a voice he knew and held so dear: Sansa was there.

He instantly pushed himself away from the wall and leapt into action, one hand on his sword. He squinted into the darkness as he ran down the corridor toward the dead end, sure that he must have missed something, and, as he had known must have been the case, he realised that there was a dark little doorway hidden at the very end of the passage, blending into the shadows. He raced towards it, his heart nearly beating out of his chest, and as he turned the corner and through the door...

It was all a blur after that.

In spite of the embers of rage that constantly burned in Sandor’s heart, threatening to catch and blaze at any moment, his conduct in battle was cool and considered. He usually fought with a rough, hateful approximation of art, but now? When he saw the men holding Sansa to the ground, everything turned to red. His blood ran like lava, hot through his veins, burning into every inch of his body as he boiled with fury. Over the shoulder of the man who had pinned her down, Sansa met Sandor’s eyes and they were filled with begging, _pleading_ desperation.

And he lost control.

He wrenched the man from between Sansa’s kicking legs, and held him up by his throat, crushing his larynx in his gauntleted hand. The man screamed and gurgled blood as his windpipe was forcibly closed until Sandor pulled a knife and thrust it into the man’s stomach, hacking a rough wound deep into his bowels, letting forth ropes and ropes of slippery grey innards, slopping onto the floor in a wet, steaming heap. After the cries dies in the man’s ruined throat and the light fled from his eyes, he flung the body aside and turned to face the next quivering coward who was shrinking away from the maddened knight.

In moments, he had the man pulled backwards into his knife, twisting the blade deep and unforgiving into flesh and bone. He felt the scrape of spine against steel and wedged it in again for good measure, the feeling of hot, sticky blood dripping out and over his armour giving him a cruel pleasure. The man sagged in his grasp until all and any fight ebbed away from him.

The last man made to run, escape while his companions were ripped apart by the enraged knight of the Kingsguard. The terrible burns of Sandor’s face were not a secret, and he was recognisable to anyone in King’s Landing – the coward had no intention of facing off with The Hound over some noble pair of tits and so he attempted to slip by the carnage and escape unharmed. He nearly reached the doorway, when Sandor dragged him back by his hair, wrapped his blood-smeared arm around his neck and twisted sharply. The sound of bone breaking, a wet crunch, was sickening.

And then all was silent but for the tiny, muffled sound of the mob that seemed so far away now.

Sandor glanced at the bodies, looking down at the bloody mess of his hands. In the dim sunbeams that broke through the ratty wooden roof, flies buzzed in excitement as the viscera of the fight steamed in the heat. Silently, he wiped his knife on his cloak before sheathing it and then finally dared to look up at Sansa.

She had brought herself to her feet and was leaning heavily now against the wall, surveying the carnage with her pretty little mouth hanging open ever so slightly. It had all happened so fast that her heart could hardly keep up, and so she simply stood in stunned silence as she tried to collect her bearings. She looked up in a daze when he heard Sandor voice entreating gruffly:

“Are you all right, Little Bird? Did they hurt you?”

“No,” she finally managed to reply, the words sticking in her throat, “No, you got here just in time.”

And then she looked him in the eyes and offered him, of all things, the sweetest smile that ever he had seen amongst such wanton destruction. That smile seemed to release every tightened muscle in Sandor’s body and in an instant he was stood before her, his hands itching to hold her. He raised his arms to wrap them about her small, shivering frame but, as he held them aloft, he saw the smears of blood that covered him and he let them fall back to his sides. He wouldn’t mark her with the same brutal stains of battle that he wore.

The light in her eyes dulled a little as he stood back from her, refusing to hold her when she needed him the most. The shivers that rippled through her body as her adrenaline pulsed shot to her hands and she clenched them tightly to stop herself from crying out to him. He could see that she was overcome, could see it in the hard set of her jaw and the water of her eyes, but she held herself together like the most seasoned warrior. She had become so brave and so proud and, in spite of the pride he felt, he hated that she had been forced to harden herself to survive this awful world.

It was too much. It was too much to keep pushing her away when all he wanted to do was keep her close, keep her safe, keep her happy. It was too much for him to keep his distance from her when all her wanted was to love her, or die trying. And then suddenly, to the evident surprise of Sansa, whose eyes opened wide and bewildered, Sandor fell to his knees. She let out a yelp of concern and instantly rushed to him.

“Are you hurt?” she cried, putting her hands on his arms, “did they hurt you?”

Instead of answering, Sandor just put his arms around Sansa’s hips and pulled her close, burying his head in the warm, welcoming softness of her belly. She went still, unsure of what to do or say, but he just tightened his embrace and sighed heavily, a jagged sound that was heavy on his lips. He felt her relax into his body and slip her arms around his neck, returning the tightness of his arms. Together, they embraced in the silence, the lazy heat of the afternoon settling around them, dust motes moving in the sunbeams and catching the light like sparks. For all of the death and violence that surrounded them, both close and far, they managed to find a moment of stillness that belonged only to them.

“I’m sorry,” Sandor uttered roughly, the words like copper on his tongue.

“What?” came Sansa’s bewildered reply as she pulled away to look him in the face.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he answered, shaking his head, “that I was keeping my distance. I pushed you away and I’m sorry.”

“N-no, I understand...”

“You don’t,” he growled, his voice suddenly raising in volume, “I thought you were going to die! I thought I was too late!”

He stood up then, wrenched himself from her embrace and paced away, holding a bloody hand to his forehead. He had almost let himself believe that she was lost to him, that his behaviour had been her undoing that he was so scared of. He felt a little hand touch his cheek and his snapped his gaze to look Sansa in the eyes.

“But you weren’t,” she murmured, “you kept me safe.”

He knew that she understood the weight of her words, knew that she understood just how desperately he wanted to hear it, even though he would never admit it. She was trying so hard to show him her affection, and it felt like a poultice for his wounded heart. It warmed him to the core and, in a moment of desire and faith and life, he grabbed her wrist, pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers in a crushing, devouring kiss.

She made a muffled sound of surprise that quickly died out, only to be replaced with a sigh of contentment, and she complied willingly when he edged her back to press her against the wall. He felt like he had never kissed before, like he wanted to do everything at once, like he couldn’t decide whether to use lips of tongue or teeth. He wanted to give her everything and take what he could get while she still belonged to him, and he held her tight as though he was terrified she might slip away.

“Little Bird...” he murmured into her soft little mouth.

He pulled away from her then and swept the wayward strands of red hair from in front of her face and between her lips, an act so gentle that he couldn’t remember the last time he had handled anything with so much care. Sansa’s honest eyes revealed her marvel at his gentleness, as though she was held in the paws of a lion who wished only to purr. He tipped her head so that she would look him straight in the eyes and he stated determinedly:

“I want you to listen, my girl. Listen to what I’m telling you now.”

“Of course, my Lord,” she replied breathlessly.

“If you are in danger, if you are ever unsafe, you need to know that I will come for you. Can you understand that?”

“What do you...?”

“No matter what happens...” His voice was low and dangerous. “...I will come for you. No one will hurt you. Never.”

It was a promise and he meant it, meant it with every quivering, angry bone in his body. He couldn’t come this close to losing her again. In his pretence of indifference to her, he had nearly pushed her away in the most final way. She nodded into his hand and replied:

“Of course. I never doubted that for a second.”

“Good.” He almost smiled as he pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. “No more scurrying down dark alleyways then, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” was the laughing reply, though there was something thick and heavy in her voice.

Sandor opened his eyes to discover the precious little gems of tears running quietly down Sansa’s cheeks. She shook her head, trying to dispel them but Sandor just wiped them away as best he could with the pad of his thumb.

“I was really scared,” she whispered, “I was really, really scared.”

“I know, Little Bird, I know.”

He pulled her into his chest plate and wrapped his arms around her. It bewildered him, how natural it felt to comfort her, how something so unpractised to him as affection seemed to be like second nature, as though it was written into his bones. He had been alone for so long, would probably be alone again soon enough, but he was now determined that, while she was his, he would love her like she deserved, like he could almost pretend he was capable of giving her. He felt a sharp little thump on his armour and he looked down to see fierceness in the blue of Sansa’s eyes.

“You are so _stupid_ ,” she snapped, and Sandor could have laughed were it not for the tears that still stained her cheeks.

“I know,” he replied quietly.

“So very, very stupid.”

“Yes.”

“So hugely, massively, enormously foolish,” she continued, but now the laughter was from her and she was wiping the tears from her face with the heel of her palm. “Keeping away from me will do nothing to keep me safe, for I shall only endeavour to be close to you with more determination.”

“Well then,” Sandor countered, “You are as stupid as I am.”

He couldn’t understand it. In his wildest dreams, there was no way that he could possibly fathom what Sansa Stark desired in him, how his beautiful Northern wolf could want to run with a mongrel like him. But here she was, embracing him amongst the bodies of their enemies, and he would not question it for fear of chasing it away. He took her hand in his and stepped back, indicating toward the door with a nod of his head.

“It’s time to return you to your owners, my girl.”

Sansa’s face darkened, the light in her eyes all but extinguished with just a few words. She nodded gravely, though the jut of her bottom lip was clear evidence of her displeasure. She looked down at the ground, at the blood on the hay, at the corpses turning stiff and cold, at the flies making a meal of their blood, and she asked:

“Can’t we just stay here forever?”

“A stable full of corpses is no place for a lady,” Sandor answered with just the hint of a sneer.

“So long as you are here, I don’t care where I am.”

Sandor didn’t have an response for that, but he felt the shrivelled, blackened thing in his chest swelled with the pure honesty of her love. He squeezed her hand tightly, not to comfort her, but because it was an involuntary reaction that he couldn’t have stopped even if he had wanted to. He wanted to deliver her back to the Lannisters about as much as she wanted to go but, for now, they had to play the game. What would happen, he wondered, if they simply left now? Used the confusion of the riot to just disappear from Kings Landing and escape the shackles that held them.

But it couldn’t work. He wouldn’t make a fugitive of her. He didn’t care what the Lannisters could do to him, even though he knew of the hateful and vicious acts of revenge they were capable of, but he wouldn’t risk putting Sansa’s life in their hands. Their escape was little but a dream and, as she pulled her by the hand out of the stable and led her back to the street, troubled silence fell between them.

It was a grim walk back, as they climbed Aegon’s High Hill. The fighting and the rioting had moved further into the city, and in the distance, far into the bowels of Flea Bottom, billows of smoke and ash rose into the sky, carrying with it the smell of charred flesh. The street that had been so filled with activity only an hour before was now filled only with bodies and blood, and the eerie, murderous stillness brought Sansa to her knees, retching at the sight of such needless, hateful destruction. Sandor put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her hair back from her face as she struggled to choke back tears and vomit and horror, and eventually he just picked her up from the ground and cradled her to his chest as he walked wordlessly towards the Red Keep. She was as light as a breath of wind, but she clung to him like he was the only anchor keeping her from drifting away in a sea of blood and death.

The Red Keep was a chaos of noise and activity when they walked through the stony archway and found Tyrion Lannister barking commands and demanding order amongst the pandemonium. When he turned and saw the Hound holding the Stark girl in his arms, his eyes softened with relief and he rushed over to them. Sandor felt little but spite for the halfman and he had half a mind to clutch Sansa and not let go, but as the Imp beckoned over some handmaidens, he gentled his rage for her benefit and set her down, gently, slowly, and with the care of a man holding the most precious thing in his life.

The maids fawned and fussed over her, seeing the various cuts and bruises that she had gleaned throughout her ordeal. Tyrion pushed through them, put his hand on her arm and asked earnestly:

“Are you hurt, my lady?”

Sandor used every ounce of willpower he had to keep from throttling the Imp, there and then. If Tyrion was suggesting that he would do anything to harm Sansa... But, as he looked around at the scared and cowardly nobles, the crying women and the injured men, he realised that the necessity of the Imp’s damage control extended far beyond their own war. Now was not the time to engage in their quarrel, but to ensure that Sansa was safe. He cut in to answer for her.

“The Little Bird’s bleeding,” he answered savagely, “Someone take her back to her cage... See to that cut.”

Sansa looked up to him then, her eyes filled with pleading, but he had to leave her now. His presence would be needed elsewhere now, and he was delivering her, no matter how begrudgingly, into the safest hands he knew. He may have resented the Imp but he knew, at the very least, that he did not mean to harm Sansa. His face was gentle when he looked into her icy blue eyes, and somehow she seemed to understand, with the merest exchange of expression, what he wished he could say to her.

When he managed to tear his eyes from hers, he gave the Imp a cursory glance and found himself puzzled by the look on his face. His brow was furrowed, not with anger but with something else entirely. Concern? Worry? Sandor couldn’t tell and he tried to tell himself that he didn’t care, but he only hoped that he had not noticed the way that Sansa’s hands had held his just a little _too_ long when he had set her down, or the way that he had smoothed her dress ever so slightly as he had pulled away. He couldn’t afford to give his secrets away, especially not to the Imp.

He turned on his heel, daring not to linger any longer, but as he walked away down a corridor, he heard hurried little steps behind him, the wobbly, unmistakably lopsided gait of Tyrion. His ignored it until he heard his voice call out:

“Well done, Clegane.”

He stopped in his tracks but didn’t look back. It was the last thing he had expected to hear, especially from the mouth of his most vocal objector. He simply shook his head and replied with vitriol:

“I didn’t do it for _you_.”

As he walked away, his ever stained, bloodied cloak hanging limply from his shoulders in his wake, Tryion Lannister shook his head and whispered to himself:

“What in God's name have I done...?”


	16. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the riots, Joffrey stakes his claim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, you are all so nice for your patience and your kind words. Please believe me, your comments are what make me keep returning to this fic and carrying on, because it makes me so proud to know that so many of you enjoy it so much. You guys are instrumental in giving me the motivation to do it, so thank you for your lovely, lovely words.
> 
> I feel like this chapter is quite a big turning point, plotwise, so I hope you like it :3

The days that passed in the wake of the riot of King’s Landing were messy and cruel, with the body count mounting and the number of atrocities committed reaching dizzying, unfathomable heights. Sansa had learnt of the vicious debasement of Lollys Stokeworth, the sad, confused little thing found stumbling about Fleabottom with no shoes on and blood running down the inside of her thighs; she’d heard about the terrifying fate of the High Septon, his limbs torn from his morbidly obese body by the mob as his shrieks for help fell on deaf ears. Sansa supposed, though her gentle heart chastised her for the uncharitable notion, that a starving crowd did not take very kindly to a man who was so fat that his ankles could barely support him.

She also heard much of the suffering of the smallfolk, though it was not truly meant for her ears. She caught handmaidens and stableboys speaking in hurried whispers when they didn’t know she was lurking, urging one another for news of relatives and friends from their humble origins in Fleabottom – their conversations were brief and desperate, not risking the chance of being caught sympathising with traitors to the crown and rabble-rousers. Sansa’s heart went out to them; she knew what it was like to be desperate for news of family in a place where that was considered treason. _Don’t fear me_ , she wished that she could beg of them, _I am not like the others and I won’t tell them your secrets_. But she understood how it was to be trapped in a place where your true loyalties could rob you blind, and she tried not to take it personally.

Her own heart had scarcely stopped racing since that day. She had been dazed and shaken when they had finally reached the Red Keep, and the Hound had set her down gently, the cold metal of his gauntleted thumb dragging across her skin as he reluctantly pulled away from her. The adrenaline that had rushed through her veins during her chase and the Hound’s subsequent butchery had kept her going as far as Aegon’s High Hill, but the second she was given a moment to breathe, she’d been swarmed by people fussing over her, touching her cuts and bruises, grasping at her hands, and the attention was suddenly overwhelming. In amongst all of the mess and horror, she had started to cry, and been ashamed by her weakness as the misery and hatefulness of it all washed over her in waves of sobs and shaking fingers.

How many times would the Hound save her? How often could she rely on him to be there when her world fell to pieces? He had promised her forever, but the realm she lived in was soaked in blood and anger, and she could no more stop the tides from washing the shore than she could calm the rage that filled each and every person in King’s Landing. She was in danger with every second that she breathed, and she was coming to realise that Sandor Clegane was fast becoming the only thing that stood between her and destruction. And though his strength became hers, and though his loyalty ran too through her veins, she was a wolf, and she craved her own power. She wanted to stand beside him, not crouched meekly behind, peering out from the safety of his cloak and watching as he struck down her enemies.

But all she seemed able to do was run, and weep.

She shook her head firmly, a little exasperated by her own thoughts. And, as though her could read her mind, from his place beside the boy king, the Hound glanced at her surreptitiously and gave her an almost-expression, a tiny movement in his stern face that could never be noticed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it, but held volumes of meaning for her. In return, her lips quirked a little, easily mistaken by another for a sniffle, but a secret, broad smile for the king’s sworn shield.

Oh, this was a dangerous game too, of course. She hadn’t made herself any safer by falling for not only a knight of the Kingsguard, but also the King’s favourite and most trusted dog. It was foolish and was bound to end in tears, but it was... Well. She didn’t know what it was. All she knew was that it made her feel like lightning from the pulse of her heart to his name on her lips, and it was the only thing that kept her from falling into the dark when everything else was so bleak.

She managed to tear her eyes away from the Hound for just a moment and resolved herself to paying attention to the boring rituals of Court. She was sure that if she was not murdered by the king or torn apart by the smallfolk, she’d definitely be bored to death by these inane spectacles. When she had first come to King’s Landing, it had seemed so exciting to her; she’d watched her future husband dole out justice and rule his kingdom from his seat on the Iron Throne, and it had all seemed so noble and regal. Now, however, she only watched as a petulant child threw his weight around and had wild tantrums whilst his long suffering uncle and his tightly wound mother tried desperately to rein him in without suffering his wrath. The novelty had long worn off and now she just swung between boredom and mild horror at the sight of someone so ill-suited to power abusing it as he abused every single person he came into contact with, in one way or another.

Reconstructing the parts of Fleabottom devastated by the riots, donating food and money to the smallfolk, and the continuing threat of Stannis’ fleet of ships; those were the concerns brought forward by the Hand of the King. Finding the people who threw waste at Joffrey during the riots and executing hordes of peasants? That was all the King was concerned with. Aside from that, he looked as bored and petulant as she felt, flung across the throne like a discarded blanket, sinking his face into the heel of his palm and sighing heavily every few minutes as his Uncle addressed the issues that had followed in the wake of the riot.

“And you really think that the smallfolk will turn on their own? Turn their friends and neighbours into the authorities that, in their eyes, have left them starving?”

“If they are richly rewarded,” the King replied, inspecting the dirt under his nails with more care and attention than he had given his uncle during this entire session of court, “I believe they will quickly turn in the traitors who started the riots, yes.”

“Oh, they’ll turn people in,” the Imp replied sourly, shaking his head at his nephew’s incompetence, “You’ll have a hundred people lined up at the door with the corpses of the people who wronged you, desperate for a little bit of gold. That’s a fine way to thin out the population of Fleabottom.”

“Well then, problem solved,” Joffrey laughed smugly, “That’s a lot fewer mouths to feed.”

Sansa could see in the tightness of the Hand’s jaw that he was straining with all his might to keep from telling his loathed nephew what he really thought, and she could feel it too. If she could only suppress the urge to wipe that self-satisfied grin off of the King’s face, she might almost manage to be impressed by the sheer lack of sympathy that this one person was capable of. For all its vileness, it was a pretty monumental testament to his true colours.

“And perhaps we might also celebrate the bravery of the City Watch, and honour the fallen?” the Imp suggested, the implication of a lack of choice in the matter very heavy in his tone. “There are many families who have lost fathers, sons and husbands in this ugly business.”

And though it was not something that Joffrey would have otherwise shown any interest in, Sansa saw the light return to the King’s eyes, and it chilled her in a way that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was though he had been given a gift, something he had been waiting for that was just now plonked in his lap, and he couldn’t wait to savour it. He pulled himself up from his slumping pose, interest piqued once more, and as she looked around the room, she could see ripples among the rest of the court, recognising that something was perhaps about to happen.

“You’re right Uncle,” he said, his voice rich with inflated pomp, “We certainly should reward bravery when it is earned.

Sansa’s glance shot from the Hound, to the Hand, to the Queen, and then to the rest of the court. Blank expressions, every one of them, blank and unconcerned. Then why, she wondered, was her heart beating like a war drum, as though it might beat right out of her chest? Why was panic settling around her like a shroud?

“There are many among our ranks,” Joffrey continued, “who have put their lives on the line to defend the crown. And their bravery and fealty deserves recognition.”

Something wasn’t right. To Joffrey, compliments were like poison on his tongue and he would rather swallow it than share the glory of a victory with anyone else. She tried to catch the Hound’s eye, but he stared impassively forward with his hand slung over the hilt of his sword, the very picture of a knight, and if he felt confusion, he showed none on his face.

“There is one, however, who has gone above and beyond the duties that he has been assigned, one who has shown true loyalty.”

No, she thought, no, no. This isn’t right. Something is _wrong._ She cried out to him in her mind, desperately wishing that she could do so with her mouth, but still he merely watched as the events before him unfolded, looking for all the world like he was a thousand miles away and totally separate from the nightmare of Joffrey’s court.

“Come here, dog.”

There it was. And even though Sansa’s heart was in her throat, choking her with the urge to retch in panic, the Hound merely raised an eyebrow in mild surprise and took a few steps forward, out of the shadow of the throne and into the gaze of the audience. He was the very picture of indifference and not a soul would guess that he was anything other than nonplussed by his King’s unusually charitable accolades.

“Come on, come on. Stand over there. I want all of the court to see you.”

“Your Grace...” the Hound began, but the king simply continued his hand waving, demanding that the man perform for him.

So he stood before the throne and faced the court. All around her, noble men and women whispered to one another, their confusion mounting and their words largely cruel. One would never have the chance to mistake Sandor Clegane for popular, especially in the company of these cravens and fools. The very notion of him deserving their admiration was despicable to them.

“What could that brute have possibly done?” she heard one lady say.

“Are we supposed to be impressed by the king’s pet murderer?” asked a man in the quietest of whispers, too much of a coward to express it to the crowd.

Sansa wanted to scream at them, wanted to tear Joffrey to the ground. Sandor Clegane was not a spectacle to be ogled, even though he was worth every miserable one of them put together. Even now, as the malicious whispers flickered through the court, he stood strong and proud. To her surprise, Joffrey’s uncle stepped forward. There was an odd look on his face, like pity or perhaps... guilt? He called out to the king:

“Your Grace, do you really think that now is the best-”

“Uncle,” Joffrey interrupted, his tone chastised, “Do we not recognise the valour of our people? Sandor Clegane has done a noble deed and deserves to be brought to the attention of the court.”

“I really think that this is better left until-“

“Interrupt me again, Uncle, and I shall be recognising you next,” Joffrey hissed and Sansa’s blood ran cold.

She pushed her way to the front of the audience and looked up at the Hound with wide eyes. His shoulders were pulled back, his chest broad, his stature dignified. There was no hint of the unrest that was sure to follow and, though they both knew that something was happening, something big, but they just didn’t know what. Joffrey was all smiles and honey dripping from his smirking lips, but he hid a sting in his tail.

“On the day of the riot, Sandor Clegane not only cut down dozens of traitors to the crown and pursued my attackers, but he also rescued my betrothed from the hands of rapists and murderers. Quite the hero, I think.” He began to slam his hands together and encouraged the audience to do the same. “Don’t you think that sort of valour deserves an applause?”

And so the confused court began clapping, exchanging puzzled looks and staring as the tall, broad man stood tall, his expression even and emotionless, even though he wanted to shrink away from their judgemental gazes and shed the weight of whatever malicious intent Joffrey was hiding. After a moment of false adoration, Joffrey stopped his applause and waited for the court’s clapping to quietly die away. When silence had returned, he gestured toward Sansa.

“My love,” he said, “Don’t you have anything to say to the Hound?”

She froze in her place, her heart stopping for the briefest moment, and then she felt all eyes in the court fall upon her. For the first time, the Hound’s stoic expression moved, and his gaze flickered towards her, betraying the slightest flame of panic in the coaldark of his eyes. She looked this way and that, scanning across the faces of the crowd, and was horrified to discover the air of titillation that coloured their expressions, desperate for something scandalous to pass around and pick over like a corpse. She was determined not to give them the satisfaction of becoming their plaything. Gathering her manners and passing a cool mask across her face, she looked up at the Hound and curtseyed ever so slightly.

“You were very brave, my lord. I’m very grateful to you for bringing me back to my King.”

Though the words were like bile in her mouth, the Hound’s slight nod in response told her that she had done the right thing. Rising from her curtsey, she took a little step back, trying to become one of the crowd once more, but Joffrey was seemingly unsatisfied and beckoned her once more. ‘ _What more_ ,’ she wondered, ‘ _can he possibly want from me?_ ’.

“But that isn’t all that the Hound has done,” the King continued, his voice rising as he left the throne to pace idly about, “as he has extended his duties far beyond what any King could expect of their subject.”

From within his finely embroidered tunic, Joffrey pulled a crumpled sheet of paper, stained with wine and badly penned, but folded with the sort of precision that betrayed the care that was really taken over it. And though Sansa didn’t know what it was, or what information the paper contained, she didn’t miss the look that washed over the Hound’s face, his perfectly practised calm finally shattering like glass and his eyes opening wide in panic. His hand fell from the hilt of his sword and he stepped back, as though he wished he could turn and run.

“After all,” Joffrey said, scanning the paper theatrically as his voice grew bitter and nasty, “what other knight would offer himself as a ‘servant’, a ‘loyal dog’, to the King’s betrothed?”

And with that, the levy broke, and the court broke into frantic whispering, stepping back from Sansa and scrutinising her from as far away as they could possibly move, as though the scandal was contagious. She looked from face to face in a panic, seeing every expression twist and move in reaction: Cersei was a picture of disgust, whilst the Imp was a steely mask of impassivity, and the Hound...? It seemed as though he could scarcely raise his eyes from the floor, making a desperate point of not even daring to look in her direction.

“So, dog. You would ‘own her cunt’, would you? And ‘fuck her til she screamed your name’?”

The Hound said nothing, not even looking up to meet Joffrey’s eyes. His hands were balled into fists, but his shoulders fell limp in defeat as he felt the sting of every word like a humiliating whip. And the court, Gods damn them to the seven hells, the court _laughed_ as though the very notion of him knowing the love and touch of someone like her was the greatest joke ever told.

“And what, might I ask, gave you the ‘impossible hope’ that the woman I am to make my Queen could ever love you in return?” He turned to Sansa, his eyes challenging. “What do you think he could possibly have meant by that, Sansa?”

“She did nothing,” the Hound cut in viciously, finally looking up from the floor and staring down at Joffrey with eyes as black as pitch, “nothing but show me kindness. This has nothing to do with her. She knows nothing of the letter.”

There were no words on her tongue, nothing that she could even hope to say. What letter? What was this, and where did it come from? She stared at the Hound with her mouth agape, begging with everything but her words for him to look at her.

“Really?” Joffrey laughed, shaking his head incredulously. “You mean to tell me that she has never read this masterpiece of comedy?”

“Never.”

“Well then, I think she deserves to hear it, don’t you? After all, you clearly put a lot of thought into it.”

“Joffrey, this ends now-” the Imp demanded, stepping forward and holding his hand aloft to his nephew, but the King would not hear of it.

“This ends when I say this ends!” he roared suddenly, bringing the court to a silence that hung about their necks like a noose. After a moment, he collected himself, clearing his throat and smoothing his hair back before turning back to Sansa. “Wouldn’t you like to hear this?”

“I...” The words were sticking in her throat as her eyes filled with unshed tears. “I don’t... I’m not sure it would appropriate, your Grace.”

“This is my court, and I decide what is and isn’t appropriate. Unless there is a particular reason that you don’t want it read?” His eyes narrowed. “Why wouldn’t you want to hear this, Sansa?”

“Read it,” the Hound demanded, his eyes suddenly shining with hostile dissent, the shields that he so carefully cultivated once more raised until nothing could hurt him. “Let her hear it.”

And he did. Every word, slowly, like dragging a blade across her pearly skin and drawing beads of blood that he intended to drown her with. He took the ferocity of the Hound’s devotion and tore her to pieces with it, breaking every word into shattered glass and using them to impale her heart. Words that she would have drunk like wine if fed to her from the Hound’s lips were instead administered like poison, and the only thing she could do to stop from crying was picture her father, his noble, proud head, thrust on a pike and left for carrion.

‘ _Remember everything that he has taken from you_ ,’ she told herself, ‘ _and refuse to let him take this too.’_

“He says that that you will ‘long to see this hideous face’, my love,” the King laughed mockingly, pointing at the Hound whose head was held high, “can you believe that? Come here, Sansa, come on.”

She meekly stepped beside Joffrey, who took her hand and dragged her before his sworn shield, forcing her to look up at him.

“Look at that face, Sansa. Look at it. How does it make you feel to know that this man would _swear himself_ to you? Wants you to _beg for his touch_? Look at him, and tell me how that makes you feel?”

“I... I can’t...” she felt as though she was caught in the crosshairs of a crossbow, scared to move but unable to stay still.

“Tell him how disgusted you are by the very idea, Sansa. Tell him it makes you sick to think of that scarred, hideous face coming anywhere near you. **_Tell him_**!”

When no sound left her lips, the Hound looked down and stared her straight in the eye, meeting her gaze with a calm and almost gentle expression. ‘ _Do it,’_ he was urging her, ‘ _do as he asks_ ’.How was he like this, so noble and composed? How was he not falling apart as she was, when everything she wanted was being ripped from her hands? The only one who was hideous to her was the man whose hand was travelling up her back to tangle his fist in her hair, pulling hard to force her to stare at the Hound’s scars, his fierce and lovely face, the monster than she had fallen for.

“Tell him, Sansa,” Joffrey hissed, and the Hound told her, with every tiny frisson of movement in his face, to do what the King demanded.

“I’m... disgusted,” she said between sobs that she caught between her teeth before they could escape. “It makes me feel... It makes me feel...”

“ ** _Say it_!** ”

“It makes me feel sick!”

“And could you _ever_ love a man like him?”

Almost imperceptibly, she shook the head that was caught in his vice like grip, but he yanked at her and demanded the question again, tightening the fingers that were wound in the flaming hair and forcing her head up so that she was unable to look anywhere but straight into the Hound’s dark, sad eyes.

“I said, could you ever love a man like him?”

“No,” she cried, trying to twist away from his grasp, “I could never love him!”

“Who do you love? To whom have you given yourself?”

“I love you! I belong to you!”

Seemingly satisfied, Joffrey let out a little ‘hmph’, before pulling his arm back and flinging Sansa away, pushing her back towards the floor of the court. She stumbled away and fell to her knees, silent tears streaming from her eyes, sick to the stomach with the poison of the words he made her say. She looked up at her brave, stoic Hound, wishing that she could cry out and tell everyone who would listen that it was all lies, that none of it was true, that she truly could love a man like Sandor Clegane.

It was too much. It was too painful. Must he really save her again? Give himself up so that she might be saved? She wouldn’t have it, _couldn’t_. If he was to face his punishment for no crime greater than taking what he wanted for the first time in his life, then she would stand beside him and take that punishment too.

Impulse overcame her and she opened her mouth to speak works that could never again be unspoken, words that told the world exactly where her loyalties laid and, with spite that ran the colour of blood, she lifted her head defiantly to call out to the monstrous little worm who called himself the King. But, seeing his brave, foolish Little Bird about to sacrifice herself, the Hound surprised her by giving a desperate look, not to her but to the Imp, a look that screamed out for action, that implored from one enemy to another, ‘ _please, please, please_ ’. And the Imp answered his call.

“That’s enough!” The Imp walked over to Sansa and put a hand on her shoulder, seemingly for comfort but deceptively tight and warning. He looked beyond his vengeful, idiot nephew and to his sister. “You would have the future Queen humiliated like this by your son?”

“I am the king!”

“And she would be queen!” Tyrion roared, proving to Joffrey that he had a powerful set of lungs himself.

“ _Might_ be Queen,” Joffrey reminded him darkly, his eyes glittering with hate.

“Whether she will be or not, she is a guest of the Lannisters, and she will be respected like a guest. She is not to be toyed with and harassed, not by you and not by knights with foolish fantasies.”

“Quiet, brother,” Cersei said as she halted him with a raised hand. Her tone of voice allowed for no argument. She turned to her son, her lips smiling but her eyes full of deception. She knew that Tyrion was right, that lambasting Sansa before the court could do little but reflect ill on the King. Her dwarf brother was an idiot, though, if he thought that one could forcibly take a toy away from Joffrey. “Don’t you think, Your Grace, that having someone like Sandor Clegane fawning over you is punishment enough? The little dove has had enough humiliation for a lifetime.”

Joffrey’s eyes narrowed at his mother, but she quickly continued, not giving him the chance to tantrum at her interruption.

“After all,” she said, her smirk quirking at the Hound whose face no longer showed anything even close to emotion, drained of life and colour, “wouldn’t you much prefer to think about how you’re going to punish this monster for daring to set his sights upon your belongings?”

Sansa struggled to her feet, but Tyrion never let go of her, his grip now tight around her wrist, pulling her back a little when she tried to keen forward towards the Hound. She looked down at him, her eyes full of fire and spite, but was shocked to discover nothing but sympathy and warmth returned by the dwarf. She wasn’t sure how, and she wasn’t sure why, but she knew that he could feel the agony inside her.

“Yes,” Joffrey replied, sinking back into his seat on the Iron Throne, his horrid smile once more plastered over his face. His absurd grin would have looked silly on his face were it not for the ugliness of his heart, and instead that awful smile brought only terror. “Yes, I am going to have to think long and hard about how best to punish you, dog.”

The Hound turned his face to meet Joffrey’s eyes, and the King was incensed to discover only defiance on his once loyal dog’s scarred face. Sansa’s blood boiled as she watched him gesture toward the Kingsguard, summoning the Hound’s former comrades with only a languid flick of his wrist, and as Boros Blount and Meryn Trant came forward with twin expressions of glee, she wished with every prayer that they would be struck down dead. They were too cowardly to confront him as a comrade, but as a prisoner they were all too happy to delight in his downfall. No doubt, they were all laughing at the man they had all come to hate so much, were all thrilled to see that not only was his reputation destroyed, but that he was humiliated to boot. The pleasure they took in his ruin was sickening.

“Take him down to the dungeons,” Joffrey ordered the two men, before adding darkly, “All the way down.”

The hand on Sansa’s wrist surreptitiously moved to rub her forearm soothingly as the men dragged Sandor Clegane down from beside the throne and ripped the white cloak from his back, smirking all the while. Even as they did it, their movements were tight and defensive, gutless even though the Hound was taking his punishment without a word, without a fight. As they flung the cloak to the floor, the crowd were split between clapping and laughing, jeering at the shamed former-Kingsguard, delighting in both the scandal and the downfall of one whose public image was one of a loathed monster. Sansa could feel her muscles shake with the effort of maintaining her composure, composure that threatened to turn to dust when the Hound laid her eyes upon her.

Oh, how her heart broke as she saw the defiance in those eyes, defiance and rage and _love_ , more love than ever she had seen bestowed upon her. Every single inch of him, even in his hopeless compliance, spoke of pride in his choices, a man who would have done it all over again. And despite the weary sadness that fell in the downturned corners of his mouth, there was not a solitary fraction of him that conveyed regret. He would never give Joffrey the satisfaction of taking the pride he felt in his love for the girl, and Sansa’s heart melted to an ocean of tears as he closed his eyes at her for the merest moment and smiled the rarest, briefest smile she had ever seen. For what felt like the thousandth time, she felt tears streaming down her face and she dropped down to her knees, forgotten amongst the hubbub and the excitement, and she wept into the Imp’s shoulder, forgetting in her misery the he was one of her many enemies in this place.

And as the Hound was pushed away from the court, roughly thrust towards what would surely be his doom, Sansa whispered over and over and over the words that she wished that she could cry out after him, words that she had never said to him and, now, might never get the chance to. She didn’t care that the Imp could hear her crying these words into his collar, couldn’t give a damn if he told his nephew, or his sister, or the whole bloody city how she really felt about the man who had hung his own noose in front of the entire royal court, all for the love of her.

“I love you,” she wept and whispered, “I love you, I love you, I love you...”


	17. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Hound confined to the dungeons, Tyrion tries to set things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, your eyes do not decieve you! It really is the second upload in the space of a week! I enjoyed finishing the lat chapter so much that I got straight on with the next! As usual, thank you so much for all your comments, I'm going to get replying to them right away, but in the meantime I hope you enjoy the latest chapter :)

There had been a lot of clearing up to do after Joffrey’s ridiculous spectacle. He had argued, of course, that to overlook Sandor Clegane’s insolence and treachery would show weakness in the monarchy, and would reflect ill on the strength of the crown. This was, obviously, total horseshit, and Tyrion had been left raging at the sheer lack of care that his nephew showed in his actions. There was no concern for his public reception whatsoever, though airing his (or the Hound’s, anyway) dirty laundry for all the court to see had done him no harm seeing as they were all almost as thirsty for blood as the King himself. No, Joffrey’s only concern was the sheer audacity of someone daring to take what belonged to him.

The list of things that the Hound was to be charged with were vast, unrelenting and truly ridiculous, from high treason to perjury, but who was going to fight for his justice? His brother? That monster was still too busy roaming the countryside and razing villages to the ground to care about his loathed younger brother. His Kingsguard brethren? They would be about as likely to fight for the Hound as they would be to sprout wings and breathe fire. Indeed, their sheer glee at seeing one of their own fall from grace made the Imp seriously doubt the strength of their loyalty. And who else would there be? Sansa?

The poor girl had fallen to pieces in the wake of that day. Tyrion had been able to smooth things over and save face for her by insisting that it was her humiliation that rendered her bedbound, and her fear of encouraging the unwanted attentions of any other men that kept her committed to her chambers. But in truth, she had scarcely done anything but lay in her bed and stare out of the window at the ever rising and falling sun, her eyes sunken and empty. She’d barely eaten a morsel in the week since she had watched her unlikely partner being dragged to the dungeons, and even that had only been because the Imp had practically begged her to, pushing a plate of lemon cakes beneath her nose in the hopes that she would be unable to resist.

She had started off crying, as he had pulled her away from the court and roped Shae into attending to her in her room. For almost a solid day and, according to his lover, throughout the night too, she had heaved up every tear her body could offer, her heart unpicked at the seams and left open to spill out its contents. But now her face was stony, drained of life and verdure, and she gave to the world as little as she took, just the breath from her lungs and the beat of her pulse.

He had tried to talk to her, make some sense of what had happened. He’d hopped onto the bed beside her, properness be damned as she folded herself up in her nightgown and shrank into her duvet nest, and he had gently probed, trying to figure out just how the flame of Winterfell had burned for the Lannister dog.

“Did he... force himself on you?” he had dared to ask, his intentions kind and well meant, but still regretting the assumption as soon as the words fell from his lips.

He needn’t have bothered asking, anyway. Her response to his question was concise and succinct, a hateful glare with eyes like ice, damning him for even suggesting it. He had almost been affronted at first, remarking to Shae:

“For gods’ sakes, how would I know? A sweet, innocent thing like her, with someone like him?”

“Well,” she had replied, her tone a little teasing, “then what am I?”

He had taken her point, a little reluctantly, grumbling away with a sarcastic retort of, ‘since when have you ever been innocent?’, but he had appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. He supposed that stranger things had happened, and he would attest to the fact that his romantic dalliances were hardly conventional either. But still he struggled; he usually found it hard enough to find one redeeming feature in the Hound, let alone enough to fall for him. But somehow, the young Stark’s mix of sweetness, honesty and purity of heart had laid the warrior bare and found every last bit of him that wasn’t yet dead, that still ran through with the last few vestiges of human decency that he had to offer, that seemed to make the irredeemable man want to be a better person.

And perhaps, Tyrion wondered as he lolloped down yet another increasingly dark set of stairs, that was all love really was: finding someone who made you into the person you always knew you could be. He quickly shrugged the saccharine idea from his mind. If love was really that simple, that redeeming, the world wouldn’t be the festering mess of hatred that it was, and whether the two misguided morons loved one another or not, it wouldn’t save them in the long run.

“Damn these stairs!” he spat as he turned a corner only to find another set taking him even deeper into the bowels of the Red Keep.

When Joffrey had ordered Blount and Trant to take Clegane ‘all the way down’, he had sincerely meant it. And the further down he went, the darker and more dank it became, cold and chilling in its echoing emptiness. Whatever was happening to the Hound, down here, was bound to be unpleasant. Oh, Joffrey meant to have him executed, that went without saying. But until that fateful day, when the Hound would face the retribution of whatever gods or monsters had been watching him throughout his life, the dungeons were his new home, and Tyrion could only guess which level of Hell he had been confined to

He was toeing a dangerous line by coming down here, really. It would certainly raise questions, being that he and Clegane were hardly bosom pals at the best of times, and bitter enemies at the worst. Perhaps, if the jailer got mouthy about his presence there, he could claim that he was simply going down there to watch him suffer. Joffrey would likely lap that up, but his sister was much more discerning. Tyrion shrugged his care away; he had too many more pressing matters at hand to be worried about swapping barbs with his older sister at the dinner table. Besides, he had considered wearing a hood to try and hide his identity as he snuck down here, but who was going to mistake him for anyone else? Perhaps he could have pretended to be a particularly diminutive guard? No, there had been no point in trying to play games. Instead, he simply had to do what he usually did and pretend like he belonged. It was surprising how much a little confidence could help you get away with.

When he finally reached the bottom of the seemingly endless descent of stairs, the air grew thick with the taste of brine, and it felt heavy in the air, stifling warm and pinprick chill all at the same time. The walls were damp and the floor was moist with creeping green growths of a wet, mossy slime, making the Imp’s waddle even more pronounced as he stepped carefully to avoid slipping. It was deathly quiet, but for the faint sound of the sea.

He walked through the darkness, trailing his fingers along the wall to give himself a sense of equilibrium, recoiling a little when he brushed along something unsavoury. He made for the little wooden door at the end of the long walkway, following the soft glow of light that shone through its many cracks and holes. He wondered whether, as Hand of the King, he might be able to slip a little renovation work through the agenda without the King noticing. But then, it wasn’t exactly supposed to be a luxury resort down here. It was actually rather atmospheric, all this gloom.

When he finally reached the door, he pushed through it, the creak resounding loud and clear down the hollow darkness. He winced a little, making a rather botch job of this whole clandestine business, before stepping through and squinting into the low light.

Rows and rows of cells with little barred windows on the door, but all of them empty, the lowest bowels of the dungeons intended as oubliettes, places where the worst scum could be forgotten about and left to rot. If he peered through, he could make out the faint sound of Blackwater Bay lapping at the castle walls only a shhort way below, splashing the strong scent of seawater through the little rooms. _‘No wonder it’s so murky in here_ ’, Tyrion realised as he picked his way through to the jailer who sat dozing on a little chair at the very end, bored by his duties of watching over what appeared to be his only charge, ‘ _we’re practically sitting in the water_ ’.

“You there!” he called out to the man whose head was lolling down to his chest as he napped peacefully, “look alive!”

The man jerked awake, blearily glaring into the darkness to find the person who had disrupted him from his gentle day of slacking. As he watched the Imp approach and quickly realised who it was, however, he quickly wiped the drool from his chin and leapt to his feet, standing tall and composed as a guard should. Tyrion shook his head and held up his hand in supplication, a wry smile on his face.

“Please, don’t stand on ceremony, my good man,” he said kindly, “This is not an official visit.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, it was just a momentary lapse of-”

“Really,” he insisted, “forget about it. Now, if you could do me the courtesy of opening up the door to Sandor Clegane’s cell, I’d be most appreciative.”

“Oh, um...” The man shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the next, thumbing the keys at his belt a little apprehensively, “The King gave instruction that he was not supposed to receive visitors, my Lord.”

“Do I look like a ‘visitor’ to you, my friend?” the Imp asked with a secretive smile, for all the world making the guard feel as though he was in on a shared joke between just the two of them.

“No, no of course not,” the jailer replied, as though his doubts had been ridiculous.

‘ _And once again_ ’, the Imp thought as he smiled to himself, watching the guard select the key and turn it in the lock, ‘ _all it takes to get what you want is pretending that you are entitled to it_ ’. Confidence really was a liar’s best tool.

The guard led him into the dark little room, and Tyrion stepped forward into the low light cast through the iron bars, staring with a mix of shock and sympathy at the bedraggled mess that hung limply just below the small window. He peered closer, taking cautious paces forward, drinking in the sad state of Sandor Clegane.

With arms chained far across from one another, stretching him out beneath the window, he hung uncomfortably on his knees, his head dropping low as he struggled to find the energy to look up at his guest. Shucked of his armour, the usually broad, strong man seemed dwarfed by his tattered tunic which, once the creamy colour of rough hewn yarn, was now stained with the bright red of fresh wounds and the rusty brown of old ones. And, if he didn’t already seem pathetic enough, he was soaked from head to toe, his dark hair hanging in matted locks down his face. Tyrion opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it, turning to the guard and saying in a quiet but authoritative voice:

“Alright, my good fellow, you can leave us now.”

“No, no, I’m definitely not supposed to leave him on his own with anyone...”

“And you aren’t supposed to sleep on the job either,” the Imp countered, his tone growing dangerous behind the usually jovial smile, “so I suggest you excuse yourself for ten minutes while I have a little word with our guest.”

The jailer paled and stared the Imp in the eyes for a moment, before nodding ever so slightly and ducking out, closing the door quietly behind him. Tyrion waited until he heard footsteps sloping off into the distance before he eyed up a little stool that lay on its side in the corner of the room and dragged it into the centre, hopping onto it and waiting patiently for the Hound to make his movement.

It was a long, quiet few minutes before the burnt, shaggy head tipped up and squinted through the darkness to see who had come for him. When seeing the Imp, his eyebrows quirked a little in surprise before he fell back to lean against the wall, propping his tired head up on the stones and looking at his visitor with the last vestiges of disdain that he still had within him.

“Imp.”

“Hound.”

He looked terrible. Had he been fed at all whilst he was down here? His clothes hung from him as though he had shrunk in size, his face pale and gaunt. Though he was dripping wet, his lips were cracked and his voice was rougher than usual, like sand raking against metal. Had anyone even quenched his thirst? The Imp stuck his hand in his open coat and produced a small leather skin, holding it up so that the Hound could see it. He hopped off of his stool and uncorked it, offering it out. Clegane tipped his head away from the spout however, regarding the Imp dangerously.

“What is this?”

“Mercy, of a sort.”

“Poison then?”

“Water.”

The Imp could see the Hound’s resolve weakening quickly, suspicious of the dwarf’s motives but folding like a deck of cards before the prospect of water. Finally, he let out a dry growl of irritation and turned his head toward the pouch in Tyrion’s hands, taking it between his parched lips and gulping it down in great swigs, no longer caring if it was water or poison or horse piss. It was liquid and that was all he wanted. The Imp pulled it away from his desperate lips before he was sated, and the Hound flashed him a mean glare.

“Don’t drink it all at once,” Tyrion said sagely, returning to his stool, “else you’ll make yourself sick. You can have the rest before I leave.”

“So what is this then?” Clegane asked, his voice spiked with spite, leaning back and rattling his chains uselessly, “what brings you to my door? Just a house call?”

“Something like that,” the Imp replied with a theatrical sniff of disapproval, “Though I had rather hoped you’d make more of an effort. Tidy up a little, put on a nice spread.”

The Hound gave a huff of laughter, in a tone that could almost be mistaken for genuine. He looked at his wrists, held aloft by his shackles, before remarking:

“My apologies, little Lord. I’ve been a bit tied up.”

And in return, Tyrion flashed him a small, crooked, but _real_ smile, sharing with him some genuine warmth. He shook his head hopelessly; this was all so wrong somehow, all so skewed. It was as though, somewhere along the lines, someone had ripped out the pages of their book and written new ones, ones that made no sense to the Imp and had caused him to lose all sense of what was going on around him. And yet, though he had been instrumental in it all, he felt keenly the whip of injustice that had cut across them all. He leaned back in his stool and twiddled his thumbs.

“I trust that you know,” he said, somewhat awkwardly, “that I am to blame for your being down here.”

“I had made that assumption, yes.”

“But you must know that I thought that I was doing what was best for Lady Sansa. I was trying to protect her from something that I believed could only mean her harm.”

“Me, you mean.”

“Yes.”

Another laugh from the Hound’s dry lips, but not nearly so good-humoured. He shook his head, though the effort strained at the muscles in his neck.

“And yet, here we are. Seems like you were the dangerous one after all, Imp.”

“Yes, well. Circumstance makes monsters of us all.”

The Hound didn’t respond, hardly in a position to refute that argument. Silence fell between them as Tyrion observed his companion quietly, taking in the various wounds that afflicted him. There was blood on him, on his clothes too, but now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see the miscoloured shapes of bruises too, and the ugly lumps of swelling that betrayed the severity of his state. He wondered too at the wet dripping from him, puddling on the floor and slowly seeping down into the drains on the floor.

“You’re very wet.”

“Well what do you expect?”

“Why are you wet?”

“That, out there,” the Hound replied, tossing his head over his shoulder as best he could to look up at the window above him. “It’s why I’m chained to this wall, why I’m under the window. It’s low tide now, but every few hours, the tide comes in.”

“It comes through the window?”

“It comes through the window,” the Hound repeated in agreement. “Spills in faster than you would believe, for longer than you would imagine. First time it happened, I thought I was to drown in it. But then the tide goes out again and I can breathe again, for just a few hours.”

“And the rest of you?” Tyrion asked, indicating to the Hound’s bloodied tunic, “who did that?”

“If you can name them, they were probably down here at one stage or another,” the Hound said with a shrug, regretting the casual action as soon as he had done it, wincing with the agony of his muscles. “Kingsguard. They’ve all had a go.”

“I’m sorry,” Tyrion said, and he meant it too. “I’ll put a stop to that.”

“It’s fine. They’re all too fucking cowardly to take a real shot at me. Besides,” Clegane leaned forward, eyeing Tyrion up with his eyebrows raised, “it can’t be going on too much longer, surely. When’s the big day?”

“I don’t know. Not long now, I wouldn’t imagine.”

“Hanging or beheading?”

“Oh, beheading I would think.”

“Good. Much more dignified. I won’t be hanged next to some petty thief.”

“Well, knowing my nephew, he has probably invented some marvellous way to do both.”

The Hound nodded, smirking with his mouth, but his eyes betraying the truth of it. And who could blame him? Who wasn’t scared of dying? But Tyrion knew that there was more to it than that, more than just his fear of what waited for him beyond this mortal life.

“Just ask, Clegane.”

“What?”

“I know that you are desperate to do so, so just ask. You’ve nothing more to lose.”

“I don’t-” he began, but then he shook his head with a sigh. His face grew grim, steeling himself for answers he might not like. “All right. How is she? Is she well? Is she safe?”

“She’s safe,” Tyrion replied, smiling a little as he heard the Hound release a pent up sigh of relief, “but I wouldn’t call her ‘well’. She’s taken your imprisonment rather hard.”

“I’ll bet that burns you up to no end,” Clegane grumbled, before his eyes softened and he asked: “what’s she doing? Did she say anything?”

“She lays prostrate on her bed and doesn’t speak a word. She didn’t know I was coming here today. I thought it might upset her further.”

“That was likely wise,” the Hound replied generously, though it did not make him happy. He would have liked, for one last time, to exchange a message with his Little Bird.

Tyrion pulled his stool a little closer, watching the myriad of tiny movements of the Hound’s tired face that told him so much about where he was, but nothing about how he had gotten there. He had come to understand through the snippets of life that unfolded around him, that everything was not always as it seemed, that the youmng Stark was never in danger from this beast, but he still longed to know, ever the scholar, _needed_ to know what had happened here.

“I have to know, Clegane. I’m terribly at a loss. How did this all come to be? How did you ever end up with the affection of Sansa Stark? And when? Did Ned Stark know? Did-”

“Imp, Seven Hells, slow down,” the Hound cut him off, heaving himself up as he shifted in his limited movement. “I’m tired and half dead. And you could have brought wine, you know.”

Tyrion smiled, but didn’t reply, waiting instead for the Hound to gather himself. Neither man was sure quite why they were tossing aside their resentments and engaging one another on a mutually bare level, forgoing their usual tricks in favour of naked honesty, but so they were. Perhaps it was because neither had anything more to lose. Perhaps Tyrion felt the crush of guilt for putting the Hound here. Perhaps Clegane wanted someone else to know his story, and the of which he was capable. It didn’t matter. They were both equally exposed to the other’s scrutiny, and neither was necessarily sure what to do with it.

“I’ve stood at the King’s side since he was a babe,” the Hound finally began, breathing out a long, low, ragged breath, “and under my watchful eye, I saw the monster he became, and I was complicit in that too. I’ve done things under his command that would make a Septon give up on his gods. But then she...”

He stopped and cast his eyes above, wondering how many layers of bricks and mortar separated him from the girl, whether she was really as far away from him now as it felt. He searched for the words to describe how it was to have her come into his life, how it felt when she laid her eyes upon him without fear, how it changed him to know that someone like her could love someone like him. But Tyrion could see it die on his tongue and he just shrugged.

“I don’t know. It felt like something precious and new. And I knew I had to protect her. Protect her from _him_ , protect her from this place, Hell... Even protect her from me, sometimes.”

He laid his head back on the wall and let out a heavy breath, replaying everything that he could have done differently, every second that he spent pushing his brave, beautiful Little Bird away when he could have been loving her. There were so many things he should have said, but now he would never see the chance, and instead of being with her, he was sitting hre, in the dank little corner of Hell, trying to explain to a dwarf just why the concept of Sansa Stark falling for him was not quite as mad as it seemed.

“But she’s so young, Clegane,” Tyrion said kindly, his tone sympathetic but his words like an icy shock, “so green. Could you have really given her everything she deserved?”

“You’re all so fucking blind,” the Hound remarked wearily, too tired to fight anymore, “she’s young, but she hasn’t had the chance to be naive since the moment she stepped foot in King’s Landing. If you can do one thing for me, just one, Lannister: don’t underestimate her. She’ll see you all fall, and live to tell the tale, mark my words.”

To his surprise, Tyrion smiled at that, and broadly too. And for some reason, it relaxed the Hound, made him feel somehow like he was in the company of someone who wished to see him succeed, even though there was no longer any hope. And maybe it was too late for him, and maybe it was the Imp’s fault, but he couldn’t find it in himself to spend his last days full of rage for someone who thought he was doing right by Lady Stark.

“That day,” the Hound began, and his voice was gruff, not with dehydration or aggression, but with what sounded a little like embarrassment, “you stopped her doing something foolish. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Tyrion replied, a little dumbfounded by the generosity of Clegane’s gratitude, when he had been strung up like bunting and tortured because of his actions.

He didn’t know this man. Yes, he’d known Sandor Clegane since they were practically boys, but he didn’t know _this_ man. His spite was still there, and his anger too, but for the first time Tyrion was starting to see something of his heart, a thing that he had buried so deep inside himself that many doubted whether it even still existed at all. He was still the man who had cut down knights and nobles and women and children, all of them just wet flesh to his blade, but there was something now behind those cold eyes that spoke of a beating heart where once there was only blackness. Something in him had changed, and it made him feel the guilt of his misapprehension all over again, as well as his guilt for... Well. He’d get to that.

“For what it’s worth, Clegane,” he professed, “I truly am sorry. It was never my intention to destroy the happiness the two of you found. Gods know, I’ve been there. And given half a chance, I would still seek revenge for what was done to me. To us. I believed I was doing the right thing by giving Joffrey that letter. But, when I saw the way she looked at you after the riots...”

“It’s done, Imp. And what’s done cannot be undone,” the Hound told him darkly, before softening a little. “But your guilt will do nothing for me. Just... Look over Sansa. She has no one now, and nothing to stand between herself and the King’s ire. You must care for her when I cannot.”

“Ah,” replied the Imp uncomfortably, rising from his stool to approach the Hound. “Yes. About that.”

And instantly the softness fled from the Hound’s face and left a hard, angry scowl in its wake. This was not going to go well, Tyrion knew that much. He paced back and forth before the bound man, suddenly remarkably glad for the chains that held him to the wall. He wrung his hands with no small degree of trepidation.

“As you know, a political match has been sought after for the King. Joffrey is set to marry Margaery Tyrell instead of Sansa.”

“It is happening?”

“It is.”

“Then what is to become of Sansa?” The Hound’s tone had quickly grown frantic, and he sat up on his knees to keen toward the Imp. “What is going to happen to her?”

“Oh, she’ll be taken care of,” the Imp remarked blackly. “My father has sent word that he intends for her to be married. To me.”

The silence that stretched between them felt like an eternity, the two men staring hard at one another, daring their opponent to make the first move. The Hound’s face was slowly transforming, from a cold look of disbelief to a mangled, hateful thing that twisted his face into a nightmare. Suddenly, with a vast roar that even Clegane probably didn’t realise he had the energy for, he was on his feet, thrusting forward with even ounce of vigour that remained in his weak, battered body, his arms pulling him back with every vicious, violent movement. As the Imp watched him rage and pull at his confines, he resignedly stepped back to his stool and waited for the Hound to exhaust himself.

“So this is what it was all about!? You didn’t want her safe at all! You just wanted her for yourself!”

“Clegane, if you would-”

“So what is this?! You’ve come down here to gloat?! You reel me in with your apologies and your guilt, but you just couldn’t fucking wait to lord this over me! Well, fuck your engagement, and fuck your marriage! You’ll be dead before you can lay a hand on that girl, I promise you!”

“Sit down, you fool!” hissed the Imp, appreciating his ardour in any other setting but this one, “You think I want this? You think I want to be matched off to some poor girl who looks at you like you hung the bloody moon? This goes beyond you, and it goes beyond me, and it certainly goes beyond what either of us want. You don’t think I’ve got secrets? Things going on that, shockingly, you might not know about? Of course I do. And it is going to ruin everything for me, so shut up and listen.”

And, to his surprise, the Hound did shut up. He slackened his pull on the chains, falling back down to his knees and eyeing the Imp warily, letting him speak but ready to fight at the drop of a hat. When Tyrion was satisfied that the Hound was placated, he let out a pent up breath and rubbed a hand along the misshapen curve of his chin, tired by the weight of making decisions for everyone around him.

“It is not what I want,” he reiterated, “but it is the only thing that I can think of to keep your girl safe. Without a marriage, she is just the sibling of a pretender for the throne, a prisoner in the guise of a guest. Married to me, she is a Lannister, and that grants her a certain amount of safety.”

The Hound could not argue with that, though his face betrayed every bit of spite that he harboured for this plan. He sank back against the wall, grumbling under his breath and shaking his head, but he did not give a response, the last exertion draining him dry of anything resembling emotion. Now, in the face of not only death and torture, but also handing the girl he loved over to another man and being able to doing absolutely nothing about it, he just looked tired and sad. The Imp could relate.

“Does she know?” he asked after a moment’s contemplation.

“No. Not yet.”

The Hound just snorted derisively in response. Tyrion sighed and leaned his head in his hands. He just didn’t know what else he could say.

“I’m sorry, Clegane. I really am. And I truly wish I had better news. But... Well, I thought you should know. Even if it seems wrong now, I thought you would at least like to know that she’ll be taken care of in the long run.” He stood to leave, but turned back. “Here. Drink the last of this.”

He walked cautiously over to the Hound, making sure that he didn’t have another outburst in him, and held out the leather skin to him once more, tipping it up to drain the last of the water into the prisoner’s mouth. Clegane accepted it, begrudgingly, and drank it dry, sucking it down in long, desperate gulps until the very last drops collected at the corners of his ruined mouth and trailed down his throat.

When he had finished drinking, he looked long and hard at the short man before him, eyeing him up and trying to make sense of it all. Finally, he said quietly:

“I’m trusting you, Imp. I’m trusting you with the only good thing in my short, worthless life. She’s worth a million of me, and a thousand of you on top of that, and she deserves more than to be pushed from Lannister to Lannister in your fucking games. So, please,” and his voice became tight and twisted in a way that the Imp had never heard from him before, pleading and honest, “ _please_ , take care of her. I’m done for, but she can still go on to live, and love, and grow happy and old. You asked me before if I could give her everything she deserves? Well, that’s it. That’s what she deserves. And I need you to promise that you will do everything in your power to make that happen.”

“I swear to you,” replied Tyrion, his heart twisting under the weight of his promise, but somehow lightened by the untainted rawness of Clegane’s request, “I swear that I will do anything and everything I can to see that that happens.”

Clegane just nodded in response, sinking down against his chains and closing his eyes, simply content in the knowledge that he had done what he could to protect her to his very last, the only oath he had ever made fulfilled. Before the Imp turned away from him, he reached out with a soft voice once more.

“It won’t be long now, Clegane. Is there anything I can do? Anything for you?”

And the Hound looked at him strangely, as though the thought of requesting any sort of mercy for himself had never crossed his mind, but then began to move his arms, trying to reach towards his chest, for a tatty pocket at his breast, but failing as the chains constricted him. Tyrion walked over, muttering blithely:

“You’re tied to a bloody wall and you still won’t ask for help...”

And he reached into the damp, bloodstained pocket to pull out an equally ragged piece of cloth. The Imp shook it open, holding it distastefully between his thumb and his forefinger, before inspecting it. It was tainted with blood and dripping with sweat and seawater, but still unmistakeably covered in some manner of embroidery. He looked up to the Hound and shrugged his shoulders in question.

“What do you want me to do with it? What is it?”

“She made it for me once, but she never knew that I had it. Give it to the Little Bird,” he said, before adding quickly, “And apologise for me for taking it. Tell her... Tell her it brought me comfort when I hardly dared to hope.”

The Imp nodded and tucked it away into his jacket, hiding it from prying eyes. For a man who had hidden behind his burns and a sword for most of his life, Tyrion was sure that he had never known such quiet nerve in the face of the abyss. And maybe it was too late for him to be truly redeemed, but the Imp hoped the Gods would look kindly on him in his final hours.

“Are you afraid?” Tyrion found himself asking, his voice soft and sorry, so, _so_ sorry. But the Hound just shook his head with a tired grin, one that was neither happy nor sad, it simply _was_ , and he replied:

“No. My life has been filled from start to end with misdeeds. She was the only good thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve seen my redemption in her. So now? I’m ready to face the Gods and walk backwards into Hell.”

“Then, my friend,” replied the Imp, surprised to find that he almost meant it, “this may well be our last. And believe me when I tell you that I mean this with the utmost sincerity and fondness: I’ll see you in Hell.”

And then he turned to walk away, his bones heavy with the burden of knowing that the man he had put to death was guilty of little more than giving the last, blackened remnants of his heart to a girl who deserved _everything_ , and his muscles screaming out in agony with every step he took as he was crushed with the knowledge that he had done exactly what his father had done to him and Tysha so many years ago.

“I’ll tidy the place up.” Sandor called after him, with a bark of genuine laughter, “Put on a fucking spread.”


	18. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shae and Sansa have a heart-to-heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so bad, omg. It's really bad. I just couldn't get it to work. I'm sorry. Hopefully the next one will be better.
> 
> It's a short chapter, this one, and it will likely be followed by another short-ish chapter, but these short shapters are leading to big things, yo. 
> 
> Thank you all for your comments :)

The crowd that had amassed to watch the Hound’s public execution was endless, a sea of angry, spiteful faces hurling abuse at a man who they didn’t truly know, and Sansa was forced to watch the whole thing from the side of the King, his talons wrapped around her hand in a vicelike grip. She felt sick to her stomach as she watched her love being marched out like a criminal and forced onto his knees to face the angry mob as they shouted obscenities at him. At least this was helping them to forget the rioting – oh, how a hivemind loved a common enemy, and the Hound was perfect bait for that.

‘ _How has it come this far?_ ’, Sansa wondered as she watched the convulsing faces turn to a liquid mess as her eyes filled with hot, ashy tears. How had their shared loneliness resulted in this? She had only wanted to share her heart, and he had only wanted to protect. How had something so pure turned to nothing but hate?

It was time.

When the blade was held over the Hound’s neck, he was calm, serene, and resigned to his fate. Sansa, however, was not. She scrambled to her feet, screaming, pulling against the confining hands of the guards, and calling out his name with the aggressive electricity of all the hatred and agony that her small body was capable of. She cared no longer for the King’s retribution, only for the fact that the whole world knew of her love before he was ripped from her. And as she howled for him, clawing at her captors and spilling her love with every tear she shed, the Hound looked up from where he knelt and met her eyes, and _god dammit_ , he smiled, smiled at her as if to say ‘ _I would do it all again, a thousand times over, for your love_ ’.

And then Ser Ilyn Payne dropped his sword, and Sansa’s eyes washed with blood, so much blood, red and brutal and everywhere, _everywhere,_ more blood that her hands could hold, drenching her hair and filling her nose and throat and she wanted to _scream_ but her lungs were filling with the blood of the man she loved and-

“No!”

She woke breathless, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, sucking in as much oxygen as she could muster. Her heart thumped in her breast and her ears, the blood that pumped around her body burning hot, and she was grateful for it, proof that she was awake and that it had all been just a delusion. She closed her eyes once more and let out a long, careful breath, trying to regulate her heartbeat and collect her composure.

Waking in a cold sweat had become commonplace now. When she was asleep, darkness and pain pervaded her dreams. When she was awake, however, those things became all too real, and though the monsters who lived in her head meant her only harm, she almost wished that she could stay asleep forever so that the nightmare was only imaginary, rather than the Hell in which she lived. Opening her eyes and letting the sunlight in only dragged her further from her reverie, where sometimes, just sometimes, she still believed that he was with her. She touched the blankets beside her, warm from her body. Maybe if she could just fall back to sleep quickly, trick her mind into forgetting it had ever woken, she could pretend that he was there too, lying beside her, enjoying the sunshine from her embrace.

But it was no use. When you’ve been asleep all night and most of the day beforehand, your body won’t rest any more, no matter how much you beg it, so Sansa just rolled over and covered her head with the blankets. It had to be well into the morning, maybe even approaching midday, but the one last thing in the world that Sansa had to be grateful for was that no one seemed bothered that she had disappeared from Court, or that she had stopped appearing in the castle all together. She was sure that the Imp had something to do with that, but she wouldn’t thank him for it. Not after everything he had done to her... To them.

She had bled herself dry of tears in the first day, howling with the agony of her grief until she could give no more. But then the tears dried up and she was left devoid of feeling, just a husk of herself, present in body but little else. She didn’t know loss could feel like this, so empty and so vast. When her father had been taken from her, in front of her very eyes, she had felt rage and misery and destruction, every atom in her body fizzing with the desire for retribution. This, though, this felt different. This felt like... nothing. Like there was nothing more that her heart could give, and definitely no more that it could take. And instead of seething and boiling under the surface, cultivating her hate and waiting for her time to reap the harvest of her anger, she simply wanted to close her eyes and sleep until it all went away.

“Good. You’re awake.”

Sansa blearily dragged the covers from over her head, blinking in the assault of light that shocked her eyes. In the far corner of the room, sitting at her vanity and playing with Sansa’s various perfumes and lotions, sat Shae, scantily clad and as inappropriate as ever. Sansa glared at her, more for exposing the lie that she might still be asleep than for fiddling with her things, and she pushed the hair out from in front of her eyes and muttered:

“I suppose I shall have to be.”

“Good.” The woman turned her dark eyes onto the young girl and gestured towards the middle of the room where a tub sat full of steaming water. “I had a bath brought up.”

“I don’t want a bath.”

“Well you’re going to have one,” Shae demanded, her tone blunt in her lilting accent, “you are too pretty to smell so bad.”

Sansa would have dignified that with a withering glare, but she supposed that the handmaiden probably wasn’t wrong. She hadn’t been out of these bedclothes in the seven days since the Hound was torn from her grasp, and she hadn’t been near anything even resembling a bath for even longer still. And in the sticky heat of King’s Landing, she was probably not exactly presenting herself like a lady. She could have almost smiled to think of what her past self, from just a year beforehand back in Winterfell, would have thought of her. She’d have been horrified with every aspect, from the way that her usually vibrant tresses hung limply beside her face under the weight of their own oil, or the way that her full, flushed cheeks were hollowed and gaunt. But, somehow, the idea of shocking her younger self almost gave her cause to laugh, seeing now just how far she had come since then. What would it be like now if her looks were her biggest concern? She could scarcely recall.

“Come on, little Princess,” Shae called over, clicking her fingers and pointing at the ground beneath her feet, “get up. We don’t have all day.”

“All right, all right,” Sansa grumbled, wondering just how much experience the fiery woman had with noble women. She doubted much, for the majority of noble women would never be spoken to in such a way, though the young Stark found herself strangely enjoying it. It was fresh, almost invigorating, and it reminded her in no small way of the way that the Hound spoke to her. No lies, no dressing up of words. Just plain, ugly honesty.

She rolled herself out of bed, unwinding herself from her quilts and heaving herself onto her feet. It felt strange to be upright, like her legs had forgotten the sensation, and she almost let herself fall back down, stopped only the expression of strained patience on Shae’s face. Her steps were short and staggered as she made her way to the bathtub, and the steam from it made her recoil.

“It’s too hot,” she said poutily, hating the way her voice came out as an impetuous whine, “I shall melt if I get in it.”

“ _You_ will be fine. What will melt,” Shae told her as she dragged a finger along Sansa’s arm for dramatic effect, “if this covering of grime that you are hiding yourself in. Now. Strip.”

Sansa instinctively wrapped her arms about herself shyly, clutching at her nightclothes as the brazen woman stood expectantly before her, snapping her fingers and staring the girl dead in the eyes, her expression telling her that she had no patience left for Sansa to waste. She slipped the light robe from her shoulders and tossed it onto the bed, but then raised her eyebrows at Shae.

“Turn around,” she demanded.

“Oh, please,” Shae scoffed as she gestured down the length of her body, at the light, gossamer material that kissed her flesh as it tumbled down, scarcely stretching over the soft curves of her hips and breasts, “you think it’s something I’ve never seen before?”

“I’m trying to retain _some_ of my dignity,” Sansa sniffed, before adding darkly, “and my privacy.”

But Shae was having none of it. With an exasperated huff and a prickly exclamation of ‘come here!’, she lunged for the girl, grabbing her wrist and pulling her over to the tub, ignoring her disagreeable noises and her protestations of impropriety. In sharp movements, giving little care or time over the process, she pulled at Sansa’s gown, tugging at it as it caught on skinny elbows and bony hips.

“Ow!” Sansa cried as Shae forced her arms into the air, “You’re hurting!”

“You had the choice,” the woman told her with a smirk, “to do this yourself.”

With one last rough tug, she pulled the nightgown over Sansa’s head, showing no concern as the neckline caught with tumbles of red hair and yanked at the girl’s head indelicately, issuing more irritable whines. She was hurting, and Sansa felt the build up of anger bubbling beneath the surface. When Shae finally had the offending nightgown in her hands, she threw it aside and then put her hands on her hips, looking the girl over critically.

Sansa stood there, squirming under the scrutiny of her handmaiden and trying to prioritise which parts of herself she should cover, thrusting one arm across her petite breasts and using her other hand to obscure the view of the small mound of red hair that collected at the apex of her thighs. She stood, creamy skinned and bare to the world, before this strange woman, and she felt the stabbing pinpricks of shame sending blood rushing below the skin and painting her with a deep red blush.

But Shae wasn’t interested in her dignity or lack thereof. As she examined the girl with an impassive face, she took in the pallor of her skin, pale and sickly, and the curved lines of ribs that dusted shadows over her waist. The girl was slender at the best of times but, now, naked and unprotected from scrutiny, the woman could see the true extent of the weight of Sansa’s misery. It was draining her dry and sucking out all of the life from her bones, leaving her but a shell, a carapace to taxi her soul from place to place, but no substance to keep it fed.

“Get in the bath,” Shae commanded, but her voice had a little more softness to it now, and so Sansa complied without complaint.

Sinking into the hot water was usually the most exquisite pleasure, the feeling of all of one’s troubles melting away and submerging in the soft embrace of the bath. Now, though, it felt essential, like it was injecting some warmth and life back into a body that was dying inside. She couldn’t resist letting out a little moan as the heat washed over her, seeping into her pores and warming up places that she didn’t even realise were cold.

“Feels good?”

“Feels good,” Sansa replied, a little begrudgingly.

“Good. Now, let’s get started on that hair.”

Sansa leaned her head back onto the side of the tub, letting her damp hair unfurl over the edge, staring up at the ceiling as she listened to Shae selecting bottles from her dressing table. She had to admit, she was looking forward to clean hair, and she did love having someone to do it for her. The feeling of fingers kneading through, massaging and stimulating made her toes curl delightfully. And though it hurt, she couldn’t help but remember the way that the Hound’s big hands had woven through her tresses as he had devoured her whole. Oh yes. It definitely hurt to remember that.

She closed her eyes and waited for the lovely feeling of having her hair washed, but the second Shae had her hands lathered up with oil, her eyes were open once more and straining in pain. Shae was _brutal_ , forcing her fingers through tangled tresses and using her fingers like bludgeons on the girl’s scalp. It felt like someone was dragging a barbed rake through her hairline, and as she pulled the oil through from the roots to the tips, she thought that the mad, exotic lady was going to drag it all totally out of her head.

“Ouch! You’re hurting me!”

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Shae commented, forcing the oil through the girl’s hair with force, “You need a good scrub.”

“Ow, ow, ow!”

Sansa had had enough. It was as though Shae was determined to be mean to her today, poking and prodding at her nerves since the second she had woken up, and she did not need another enemy today, not now. She pulled herself from the woman’s grasp and pushed herself to the other side of the tub so that she could face her assailant, dripping hair splayed over her face as she glared savagely up at her.

“Why are you doing this!?” she demanded.

“I’m just getting you clean, I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes you are, _yes you are_!” Sansa grabbed at the base of her hair, trying to stop the throbbing pain that was amassing at the roots. “You’re trying to hurt me, trying to upset me! I have enough people doing that already! Why are you doing this to me!?”

And to her surprise, the woman’s eyes softened under her harsh glare, and after a moment of watching her levelly, she sank down on her knees and leaned her head on the side of the tub, looking up at Sansa warmly and, even, sympathetically.

“You’re feeling it, yes?”

“Feeling what!? Angry, embarrassed, _hurt!_? Yes!”

“Exactly,” Shae said matter-of-factly, rising on her knees and gesturing wildly with her hand, “exactly! And isn’t it better?”

“Better than what?”

“Better than feeling nothing at all. Even feeling angry is better than feeling empty.”

Sansa opened her mouth to respond, but the words died on her lips. Under the water, her hands that were balled into fists gently unwound and she could feel the tension in her jaw slackening as she realised that Shae was right. Her irritation and her upset had given her more energy than she had had in days, had made the blood in her veins start flowing just a little bit, and she suddenly felt a strange rush of warmth toward the woman who had been abusing her since she had opened her eyes. She shook her head sadly.

“But it hurts.” Her eyes filled with tears, partially because of the pulled hair, and partially because of the feeling of empathy that she had grown so unused to in this place. “It hurts _so_ much.”

And Shae knew then that she wasn’t talking about the hair, or even the forced exhibitionism. As she looked at the wet girl, dripping with bathwater and tears, even she, self professedly hard of heart, wanted to scoop the girl into her arms and take her from this terrible place. She understood now, perhaps a little resentfully, why Tyrion was so determined to make things as right as he could for this sweet girl.

“Yes, it hurts. And it will continue to hurt, always. But over time, it will hurt a little bit less, and less, and less, until one day it’s just an ache in the pit of your heart that is small enough that you can pretend it isn’t there.” The woman gestured towards her, urging her to relax back into the water and when Sansa did return to her place in the bath, she was glad to find that the woman’s fingers were much gentler, and so were her words. “You wake up with nightmares, and I notice. You sit in your bed all day, you sleep the sun away, but you wake up screaming.”

“Will that part ever stop?” Sansa asked, her voice catching in her throat so that it came out as little more than a whisper, almost scared to ask as she was terrified by the answer.

“Pray that it doesn’t,” Shae answered with a shrug as she worked the lather into the girl’s hair, “things that hurt are hard, but they are proof that you still live.”

Sansa sank further into the water, her body curling into a ball and clutching at herself tightly. She didn’t care for proof. She didn’t really care about living either right now. If this pain - this gnawing, aching monster that lived in her chest and blackened everything that beat with blood - was what living meant, then she wanted nothing to do with it.

“What’s the point?”

To her surprise, she felt Shae’s fingers curl around her shoulders and guide her around to face her, her eyes steely and her expression fierce. She pushed the wet hair from in front of Sansa’s face and met her gaze hard.

“Now, you listen to me. I don’t know this ‘Hound’ that everybody talks about, and what I do know about him, I don’t particularly like. But I do know this: he made sacrifices, a lot of them, so that you could live. That was important to him. He doesn’t want you to give your life up for him.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because Tyri- I mean, because the Hand of the King went to see him.”

Sansa’s eyes shot wide open and she sat up straight in the tub, no longer caring about her dignity. She thrust herself to the edge, right into Shae’s face, and she demanded of her, barely pausing for breath:

“He saw him? When? What did he say? How was he? Where is he? What’s going to happen?”

She was frantic, desperate for any sliver of news, but Shae put her hand gently on the girl’s, shaking her head. She didn’t have many answers for her, though as she looked at the need and hopefulness that coloured her blue eyes like a rainbow, she wished that she could have given her everything.

“I don’t know much. I’m sorry. I wasn’t even really supposed to tell you. But...” She hesitated a little and Sansa urged her on.

“But what?”

“There is something that I am supposed to give you.” She stood and went over to the dresser. “But I want you to promise that you won’t let this upset you further.”

“What is it?” Sansa demanded, leaning on the side of the tub with wide, expectant eyes.

“It’s dirty and smelly, is what it is,” Shae grumbled as she picked the thing up delicately, partially for her care for the object in her charge, and partially because it smelled of sweat and blood.

She handed the small, folded piece of material to the girl, who regarded the thing with some confusion, and almost went to sit down beside the tub, when she thought better of it and instead went to the door. The girl didn’t need her here for this. She quietly called over:

“I’m going to go and get you some lunch. You’re a bag of bones.”

“Okay,” Sansa replied absently, not really listening as she unfolded the piece of material, but then Shae raised her voice and the girl whipped her head around to hear her words.

“Apparently,” she told her gently, “he wanted to apologise for taking it. But he said it brought him comfort.”

And then she left, and Sansa began to furtively dive into the little package, unfolding and unfolding again until the small bit of fabric became a rather larger one, her heart in her throat as she began to understand what it was that she held in her hands. As she saw the intricately little stitches of mustard yellow and coal black, she let out a small cry and put her hand to her mouth, as if to contain the sobs that threatened to escape. In her hands, bloodied and battered, but also marked with fingerstains that revealed the amount of times that it had been lovingly pawed over, lay her piece of embroidery, her intended gift for the Hound from what felt like so long ago.

She held it to her face, not caring about its stains or its raggedy state; her tears would mix with his blood, and even though they were so very far away, she felt like it would bring them just that tiny bit closer. She shook her head as she inhaled long and deep, trying to get the merest hint of his smell from this poor, sad little bit of fabric that had been through the wars, but all that she could smell was seawater, and she let out a loud noise of displeasure as she held it to herself.

He’d wanted to apologise for taking it, that was what Shae had said. She shook her head with angry tears in her eyes.

“It was for you, you big idiot,” she cried, “It was all for you.”


	19. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the height of Sandor's capture, he has a couple of unexpected visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your incredible reviews - I am so lucky to have such wonderful people reading my silly little fanfic, and you all genuinely give me so much confidence. I haven't had a chance to go through and reply to everyone yet, which I feel really badly about because I love reading them all so much, but I promise that I have read, enjoyed and been genuinely grateful for all of your kind words. Love to you all!!
> 
> (OH and by the way, if any of you fancy following me on tumblr, you can find me at http://heichoudrivingtheimpala.tumblr.com)

Tyrion had been true to his word. Since his visit to Sandor’s dank, forgotten little pit in the bowels of the Red Keep, none of his Kingsguard ‘brethren’ had seen fit to pay him any more house calls, and he had been left in peace – to rot – in his own company. But, though the Imp’s courtesy was done with nothing but good intentions, something that had surprised the disgraced warrior and given him something to muse upon as the long hours stretched out, he almost wished that the little lord had kept his mouth shut.

For, although the bastard knights revelled in his disgrace and his torture, their visits did at least serve to break up the monotony of his capture. Their attentions may have been unwanted, but their constant threat did give him something to look forward to. Without them, the only thing he could do was stare into the dimness until night fell, and the only excitement he could hope for was the constant ebb and flow of the sea, rising to spill through his window and give him the fleeting hope that the next wave would drown him where he hung chained.

He smirked weakly. What a sorry state of affairs he had found himself in, when the last pleasure he could hope to get would be to spite Joffrey by dying before the boy king could have his fun with him, and perhaps one last ‘fuck you’ as he breathed his last.

‘ _Don’t think about breathing_ ,’ he reminded himself as he heaved up ocean water and bile onto the stone floor before him. The last tide to come in had been particularly brutal, pushing gallons of water from the Bay into his little cell, drowning him for what felt like days before it finally began to draw back and subside, leaving his lungs and his stomach full of acrid brine that kept dragging itself back up to remind him that he was only half-dead, and that he was not yet beyond agony.

He jangled a little at his chains, the motion barely perceptible though it felt like he had moved a mountain. He instantly regretted it though, as the movement rubbed against the deep sores that the metal shackles had rubbed into his wrists, ocean water worked into the wounds like liquid fire. He let out a pathetic little noise of displeasure and slumped back against the wall, long giving up the folly of trying to find any sort of comfort.

But for seawater, his belly was empty and his throat was as dry as a Septa’s cunt. How many days had it been now, since last he’d been fed? Two? Might have been three. Though it had not seemed to be the case in the first days, Joffrey did not intend for him to waste away down here in the agony of starvation and thirst. Push him to the brink of it, perhaps, but it was not how he was destined to die. And so, a little time after the Imp’s mercy call, he was presented with a cup of soured wine and a dry hunk of bread with a maggoty apple. Perhaps they had sought to test him, see if he would turn his nose up at the taunting offering, but Sandor wouldn’t give them the pleasure of his disgust. When the apple was held before him, maggot-side first, he had taken a hungry bite out of it, his eyes trained fiercely on the guard’s, never once grimacing as the foul food fell to pieces beneath his teeth.

And what did they expect, really? Did they expect him to retch, to faint? Did they think that munching a few maggots would be the foulest thing he had ever done in his life? He was a butcher. He’d been elbow deep in steaming hot corpses, had stared into the still-blinking eyes of men whose guts were already on the floor. A few little grubs in his food were not going to put him off.

He grimaced a little. He wouldn’t pretend it had tasted good.

If only he had the energy, he lamented as his eyes flickered closed, his exhaustion getting the better of him and demanding that he give into the tiny amount of sleep that he could usually snatch before the tide came back and woke him again with a shock, if only he had the energy to be angry. Anger had always gotten him far, had propelled him from dire situations and ensured that he came out the victor.

But now he was just tired, and whenever he tried to summon that bubbling rage, his mind could turn to only one place, the only place that his imagination wanted to go anymore.

“You big silly.”

At the sound of that voice, his eyes flickered open, dragging him back from giving into sleep. He just barely managed to tip his head back enough to look through the shadows and towards the voice. It was blurry, partially because of the brine that crusted around his eyes and partially because of the thumping ache that rattled around his head, but if he squinted just right, he could almost see.

“Little Bird,” he croaked, his throat like broken glass.

“My silly, silly Hound.”

She came out of the shadows and knelt down on the wet stone, smoothing out her dress and smiling up at him, _just so_ , in that way that made his stomach twist. Those big blue eyes somehow still managed to shine with sunlight, even in this place where only darkness lived. He tried to reach an arm out to her, managing only to move inches at most away from where the chains held him, but the effort was insurmountable.

“Don’t move,” she said in a voice that was both sensible and as soothing as silk, “you’ll only hurt yourself.”

“How did you get...?”

“That’s not important,” she replied.

She wrinkled her pretty little nose a little as she looked him over and he almost barked out a laugh as those little freckles across her face moved in poorly disguised disgust, though it came out more like a gravelly cough of amusement. Damn, he was parched.

“Am I not the very picture of your knights?”

“Hmmm.” She made a noncommittal noise and shrugged a little. “You’re wetter than the knights in my books. But other than that, pretty similar.” Her eyes flashed with a curious darkness as she looked up at him, looking _into_ him. “And you’re still just as heroic.”

“Little Bird...”

“Do you remember,” she asked him suddenly, “when you won the Tourney of the Hand? You know, I told my father that I was rooting for Ser Loras, but I was cheering for you the whole time.”

“I know. I was watching you.” He almost smiled. “I saw you cheering. I always wanted to believe that it was for me.”

He looked down at her pooling skirts, the soft material dry as a bone, even as they sat in the swelling water.

“You’re not real,” he replied sadly, realisation hitting him too late, his reasoning and faculties a little slower in the wake of his exhaustion.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head, sounding almost as heartbroken by it as he did, “I’m not. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. ‘S not your fault.”

And to his astonishment, he felt pinpricks behind his eyes, pressure and heat that started at the top of his nose and spread across. He set his jaw hard and closed his eyes again, shaking his head a little. Stop it, he told himself, don’t you fucking dare. He wouldn’t be brought to tears by a blurry apparition of the Stark girl, wouldn’t let himself fall apart over imagined words. She wasn’t and would never be there, and he was not going to let that be the thing that broke him.

He cracked an eye open a little. She was still there, waiting patiently for him. He jammed his eyelids closed again, determined to ignore her. If he ignored her – it – long enough, then she was bound to go away, to disappear back into the melancholy recesses of his mind from which she came. He was obviously going mad, he reasoned with himself, had reached the peak of his isolation and his torture and was finally losing his mind too, but at least he had enough of his wits about him to know that she was not really there.

But as he kept his eyes closed, he could feel his body sagging once more. He was so, so tired, so exhausted. Maybe it would be better if he just gave into sleep, let himself be carried off by the lullaby of the crashing waves and gave into whatever awaited him on the other side. But as his consciousness began to drift, that voice broke through again.

“Please, _please_ , my Lord, don’t fall asleep!”

He wearily opened his eyes again, struggling to keep them both open at once. His head was swimming, pounding with pressure, and he would almost describe the feeling as drunk, were it not for the agony that soared through every bone and muscle.

“Why?” he asked, “It doesn’t matter. You’re not real.”

“If you fall asleep,” the almost-Sansa pleaded desperately, “You might not wake up.”

“So? I’m dying anyway, might as well be now.”

“I won’t let you,” she replied fiercely, her flame hair tumbling about her shoulders like a mane, “I won’t let you die.”

That was such a Sansa thing to say, such a brave, honest, Stark-like thing to say that he could have almost believed it to be true, almost believed that she was really there, pledging her life to his. But she wasn’t, and he was alone and so he simply sniggered and spat cruelly:

“But I am dying, Little Bird. I’m dying for you. Dying because I couldn’t watch anything happen to you.”

As soon as the angry words left his mouth, he softened, regretting the look on almost-Sansa’s face, the just-slapped expression of wounding and guilt. He didn’t care that she wasn’t there, or that she wasn’t real. He had never wanted to be responsible for that look on her face ever again, and so he sighed and added gently:

“Dying because I love you. And I’d do it again, girl, so don’t give me that look. You’ve nothing to feel guilty about. It was my choice, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat, all right? So don’t look at me like that.”

He settled back against the wall in slow deliberate movements, curling up as best he could and faking a smile for almost-Sansa’s benefit.

“I’m tired, Little Bird. I’m so tired. Just let me sleep. I promise, if I wake up then I will talk to you for as long as you want. But if I don’t...?” He sighed sadly. “If I don’t, just be glad that I died doing something important. Something I cared about. Something,” he finished with a flash of a smile, “like one of your knights would have done.”

He tried to close his eyes again, but she wouldn’t stop. Relentless with her mouth, just like the real thing. As sweet and shy as she was, she just couldn’t stop that lovely little cherry-pit mouth of hers from moving.

“You said you love me,” she said, her tone twisting cold, “but you never bothered to say that to the real me.”

He snapped his gaze back at her. That was unfair and uncalled for.

“She knew it.” He growled back with a hopeless shake his head. “And you know damn well that it wasn’t as simple as that.”

“She never heard those words from your mouth,” almost-Sansa said matter-of-factly, drawing her knees to her chest and looking out from over them with an accusatory look in her eyes, “And if you die now, she never will.”

Her words were ice, cold and unfeeling, and even though he knew that she was only a figment of his imagination, only a vessel for his own doubts and regrets, they still stung like a whip. He closed his eyes and tried to shut her out.

“If you give up now,” she continued, her voice mean and decidedly more Lannister than Stark, “then she will go her whole life not knowing that you loved her. She’ll never know-”

“Be quiet,” he interrupted her irritably, wincing as his snapping tore at his dry throat, “you’re not here. I don’t have to listen to you.”

“And if you give up,” she pushed forward, her tone turning velvety all of a sudden, “then you’ll never...”

That voice was suddenly very close to his ear, so close and so real that he almost jumped back and recoiled in surprise. He opened his eyes and found her sitting close to him, so close that if he had the inclination or the energy, he could reach out and touch the empty space that his dream inhabited. He swallowed thickly as she ghosted her lips close to his and, if he tried very hard, he could almost trick himself into smelling the mix of flowers and lemons and snow that cascaded from her hair.

“If you fall asleep now, you’ll never have _me_ ,” almost-Sansa purred, drawing her hands up the seams of her dress until she reached her neck, slender fingers dragging along the porcelain of her exposed skin.

“Stop it,” Sandor tried to say, but his voice caught in the dry rasp of his throat, and he was mute.

 _‘Idiot_ ,’ he berated himself, watching dumbly as his innocent, precious Sansa sank her hands across the soft flesh of her cleavage and began to pull at the material that bound her blushing breasts, ‘ _this isn’t real, you fool!’_. But as his mouth dropped open, trying to chastise the apparition to stop, he found himself buying into his own fantasies.

“Haven’t you always wanted to know,” she asked as she teasingly pulled at the silk of her corset, “what secrets I’m hiding beyond my pretty dresses? Haven’t you tried to picture it a thousand times?”

“S... Stop...” This was wrong. This wasn’t her. He shook his head and tried to block her out, grinding his teeth at the effort of trying to will away his own imaginings. He found his voice and rasped aggressively, “You aren’t her!”

“But,” she replied as she loosened the ties on her dress and began to pull it off of her creamy shoulders, “don’t you want one last chance to see me like this? Don’t you want one chance to have me the way you’ve always dreamed?”

“No! Not like this!”

“Then wake up,” she whispered in his ear as he squeezed his eyes shut and willed her away, “and live.”

And then she was gone. His heart pounded and his chest rose and fell erratically as he tried to suck in lungfuls of breath, casting his eyes wildly about the darkness. She was gone, and whatever madness his exhaustion and starvation was dragging him into was gone too, for now.

“Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

That had been a close one. He sank back and let his tense muscles relax. He’d nearly gone, then, nearly fallen asleep and let the darkness take him. If it hadn’t been for whatever spectre he had just conjured, he’d have fallen beyond the reach of mortality and been lost forever. And now that he was awake once more, he realised just how much that terrified him.

He couldn’t die. There was still too much for him to do, still too much for him to protect. How could he have been so selfish, so blind? He couldn’t die like this, couldn’t leave Sansa alone out there. His job wasn’t done. He had all but thought his role was finished, judged that his part of her story was over. But could he really trust Tyrion to keep her safe? He was only one man – one half-man – amongst a thousand others who would see her dead. He couldn’t leave her to be pulled apart by the Lions when he was still breathing.

And... He hardly dared to even think this, hardly dared to let himself admit, but... He wanted to live, he realised. How could he have given up like this? He had her, had the girl within his grasp, had her so close that he could touch, and taste, and love her. She was his, and he was hers. He couldn’t let this be taken away from him like so much before – he finally had something to fight for.

“I have to live,” he gasped hoarsely, trying to pull himself away from his chains, trying to drag himself out. “I can’t... I can’t die like this...”

But what could he do? Chained down here, hardly alive enough to even breathe, falling apart at the seams. He was useless to her like this.

Tryion – he needed the Imp.

“O-oy!” he called out as loudly as he could, cutting his throat to ribbons with just one syllable. “You out there!”

He could see movement beyond the door, dark shadows shuffling about beyond the bars.

“Oy, you bastard, listen to me!” He yelled as loud as he could, though winced when the echoing sound bounced back to him and revealed only the pitiful mewling that he was capable of. “Bring me the Hand of the King! Bring me Tyrion Lannister!”

Oh, it was a risk. At best, he’d be ignored – at worst, he’d be putting the Imp in danger and, by extension, Sansa. But he had to try. If the Little Lord got word that he’d been spouting his name, he knew he’d come. It was a calculated risk, and one he had to take.

The door opened, to his surprise, and a figure moved into the darkness, a small, wiry figure, shorter in stature than the guard. He held a lantern aloft, and Sandor blinked blearily into the assaulting light, his eyes untrained to the brightness. Could it be...?

“Tyrion...?”

“Now, what could you possibly want with my uncle, Dog?”

Sandor’s blood ran cold and his eyes widened. Sight adjusting to the harsh bite of the lamplight, he could just about make out the smirking, hateful face of his former master, looking down at him with nothing but spite. When Sandor failed to react to him, the King brought a hand to his chest.

“Why, Clegane,” Joffrey gasped in mock hurt, “you injure me. Are you really so unhappy to see me?”

He wouldn’t give into the bastard, Sandor decided, determined and stubborn as he could manage. He wouldn’t give him the fear and the pleading that the King so dearly desired. If he wanted a dog that would beg, he should have trained him better. Instead, he relaxed against his chains and replied:

“Hmph. Just wish you’d let me know you were coming. I’d have tidied up.”

That was all it took. He could see the thinly veiled rage bubbling to the surface, the King’s tight, wormy mouth a thin line of disdain and retribution, his cheeks flushing purple. That was Joffrey’s greatest weakness, his temper, though Sandor appreciated the irony of that coming from himself. But a King should be able to remain impassive, should strive to be unflappable; Joffrey was anything but.

“Do not think, _Dog_ , that I will not have you killed here and now,” the King hissed bitterly, his fists balling at his sides and his mouth flecked with spittle as he spat his hatred in bursts. After a moment, he managed to pull himself back, smooth his temper over, and he leaned over to drop the lantern on the floor. Sandor tried his best not to eye it mistrustfully, the flickering flame within giving him cause for alarm. He didn’t want to give the King ideas that he might not already have.

“Then what, may I ask, brings you here, Your Grace?” Sandor rasped politely, trying to bite back his own stubbornness to avoid Joffrey’s unnecessary wrath. If he wanted any chance of liaising with the Imp once more, he would have to tread more carefully.

“I thought you deserved a little special treatment,” Joffrey said with a shrug, though his nonchalance hid a wicked gleam in his eyes, “seeing as you have served me so loyally throughout the years. It hardly seemed fair that I not even visit you once.”

“Indeed?” Sandor questioned warily.

“Indeed. In fact, I thought I would even give you the chance to explain yourself. Perhaps you can make me see that I was mistaken. Maybe you could even convince me to release you.”

 _‘It’s a trap_ ,’ Sandor reminded himself cautiously as he stared back into the flat, mirrorlike eyes of his King. He knew it was a trap, knew it could be nothing else, but he was so tired and so desperate that he could almost feel himself slipping. ‘ _Don’t be a fucking idiot, Clegane_ ,’ he told himself, ‘ _Don’t play his games_ ’. And so he simply raised an eyebrow sardonically, the effort of which was agonising, and replied:

“And how would I go about convincing you?”

“Perhaps you could tell me what could have possibly made you think that you could get away with trying to take something that belongs to me?” Joffrey’s cold eyes flashed with menace. Blue, Sandor thought to himself, blue like Sansa’s, but so, so different. How could he find such warmth in one, but such cold, hard hatred in the other?

“What can I tell you?” Sandor grunted with a quirk of his shoulder, somehow managing to look noncommittal, even with his arms chained apart, “You’ve got good taste. She’s pretty.”

“Pretty,” Joffrey agreed, his tone dangerous, “and subservient.”

“She’ll make a pretty wife for the Imp.”

Joffrey’s face moved sharply, as though he had been struck, and Sandor almost cursed his quick tongue. The last thing he wanted, the last thing he _needed_ , was to incense Joffrey further.

“Know this, Dog,” Joffrey ground out between clenched teeth, his voice low and threatening, “Sansa will not ever belong to my Uncle. Even if they wed, she will still be mine. I am the King, and I can take whatever I want.”

Sandor didn’t reply, his dark eyes saying everything that needed to be said: ‘ _you won’t lay a finger on her, you bastard’._

“She’ll not be safe because of you or my monstrosity of an Uncle,” Joffrey continued, his temper mounting, voice raising to a petulant shriek, “I will have her! I will bring her down here and fuck her in front of you! I will fuck her on her wedding night and make my Uncle watch!”

Sandor’s fists curled into balls, grasping all of his anger into his hands and glaring at the King from under his damp tangles of hair. He was mad, Sandor realised, mad with hatred, mad with spite, mad with sickness. There wasn’t a hint of Baratheon good nature in him, not even a lick of it. He was Lannister, through and through; he was Jaime’s pride and Cersei’s vanity, and he was twisted beyond help.

“You need putting down, Joffrey. Just like they do to bad dogs.”

“Like I shall do to you?” was the vitriolic return.

“I should have killed you while I could. Done the world a service.” Sandor mustered everything that was in his arid throat and spat at Joffrey’s feet.

And within seconds, Joffrey was at his throat, a skinny, curved little blade held dangerously tight against his skin. Sandor had hardly even noticed him move in the darkness, but before he could even blink, he was swallowing back his anger and keening as far from Joffrey’s blade as he could.

“Do you know what this is, Clegane?”

“No,” he admitted, glaring into the boy King’s eyes, trying to remember the years had spent by his side, struggling to remember how he had ever sought to protect him. How had he ever let him become this?

Joffrey pulled the blade away from the Hound’s throat and dangled it before his eyes, letting it shine in the lamplight. It was thin, and tapered off at a curved, with a flat edge so sharp that he could hardly see where the blade ended. He swallowed thickly. Yes. He did know what this was.

“They use this knife,” Joffrey told him, “to take the skin off of flesh. They call it a flaying knife.”

His eyes were on fire with pure delight as he saw the fear flash across the Hound’s face. He dragged the blade across the hint of exposed chest at Sandor’s neck, scarcely pressing at all, but his trail left beads of blood rushing to the surface.

“I’m sure you know of the Boltons, Dog.” He grinned terribly, revealing shiny little rows of needle like teeth. “Their methods are crude, savage even. But I can’t help but wonder...”

“Your Grace!” a voice called from outside, hands slamming on the door. Joffrey ignored it, deaf to anything but his own ire, his own torturous pleasure.

“You and I are going to have some fun, down here,” Joffrey told him, “and by the time you’re ready for Ser Ilyn’s blade, your beloved Sansa won’t even be able to recognise you. If you think you’re ugly now...”

“King Joffrey, please!!” the voice cried, full of terror.

“A lady, Clegane,” Joffrey said with a smirk, “you’ll see what happens when you try to shoot above your station...”

He held the blade flat against Sandor’s unburnt cheek, the sharp edge of the blade just about beginning to bite into his flesh, but just as he was about to press down, the door burst open and a guard stood panting in the thresh hold.

“Your Grace!”

“What!?” spat Joffrey, turning from Sandor and raising to point the blade at the guard. “Can’t you see I’m busy!?”

“Your Grace, I’m sorry but...”

“But what!?”

“It’s Stannis, Your Grace,” the guard cried in terror, flinging his hand in the direction of the window at the sun that was setting over the Blackwater Bay, “his boats have appeared on the horizon! The battle is starting!”


	20. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle Of The Blackwater has begun, and Sansa is thrust into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sorta fudged the specifics of what happened during the B.O.B, but let's call it artistic license, haha.
> 
> If any of y'all want to follow me on tumblr, you can find me at http://manicpixiedreamweeb.tumblr.com :)

Sansa’s heart had pounded through her chest as the doors had closed behind her and Shae. She hadn’t understood what was going on, couldn’t grasp it from the snippets of shouted conversations that she passed as she was rushed to a high, defended room in the Holdfast. One moment, Shae had been gently combing her hair and tangling it into pretty braids, telling her dirty stories and making her finally crack a smile, and the next, they’d been roughly ushered out of the room and dragged up the stairs.

For a moment, Sansa had been sure that she had been discovered, that Joffrey had decided that she was just as complicit in her affair as the Hound. She had swallowed empty breaths in heaving bursts as she anticipated what horrors awaited her at their destination, wondering just what the King could have planned for her. But as Shae had begun to protest loudly, demanding that the guards take their ‘filthy fucking’ hands off of them, Sansa had opened her eyes and looked around, and it hadn’t taken her long to realise that the entire Red Keep was in uproar, and that nobody really knew what they were doing.

And when she was then pushed into the small, high room, amongst a sea of other scared, tear stricken faces, she had realised that they were all just as confused as she was. There were yawning children tugging at their mother’s sleeves, embarrassed ladies gathering their night gowns around their scantily clad bodies, and, to Sansa’s greatest surprise, even Cersei was present, sour faced and ornery in her own little corner of the room.

It seemed like every woman and child in the castle had been ushered up here, so Sansa had simply took a chair and sat quietly, planning to keep herself to herself until the whole thing blew over and she was able to go back to her own personal isolation and the peace that that brought her. But, as ever, things were not that simple, and her soft heart couldn’t watch those around her be consumed by fear. Before she knew it, she was soothing elderly women, playing with wide-eyed children and leading people in prayer to both the Old Gods and the Seven. People were coming to her with questions and worries, looking up to her as though she might have the answers they sought.

And by the time Blackwater Bay erupted into flames, she was exhausted.

In amongst all of the screaming and shouting from the vicinity of the sea, the horizon had suddenly flushed green with the sickening glow of unholy flames, and everyone had rushed to the window with screams, scrabbling to see the hellfire that had set the very sea alight. Sansa’s heart seized up as she watched the dead embers devour the sky and she felt the small, frightened hands of children grab at her dress for comfort.

“Shhh,” she soothed them, not able to drag her eyes away from the sea of flames, “It’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just... Just...”

“Wildfire,” came a clipped voice from behind her.

She finally tore her gaze from the window and turned to see the only person who had not raced to see what was going on, who seemed entirely impassive in the face of apocalypse. The sky was full of ash and the very water was turned to blaze, but Cersei sat tall in her chair, a glass of wine in her hand, a sneer on her lips. It was as though nothing could surprise her, as though a dragon could fly over the horizon and she’d still be unimpressed.

“Come here, Dove,” Cersei said, her words only slurring a little, patting the seat across from herself, “Come and sit beside me a while.”

Disentangling herself from scared little hands, Sansa worked her way through the room and took a seat beside Cersei. The woman had a hand clutched tightly at her decanter of red wine and was already a strong halfway through, but she tipped it toward Sansa in offerance, and the girl nodded mutely in gratitude. She didn’t really want the wine, didn’t care for it much, but if it would get her the answers she sought, she’d drink an entire cask.

Cersei poured her a little cup and she sipped at it politely, aware that the queen was watching her intently with a mix of curiosity and scrutiny, as though she could use those sharp eyes of hers to pierce right down to the heart of Sansa’s soul. It was unnerving, but in the face of both the war that waged beyond the four walls in which they hid, as well as the horrors that she had seen within them, she was sure that nothing could really scare her anymore.

The Queen leaned her head in one hand and tapped her elegant nails along her glass with the other, a rhythmic strumming that matched the pulse of Sansa’s blood in her ears. What did she want, Sansa wondered, meeting her eyes over the top of her cup, and why did she call me here? After a long pause, Cersei finally looked away from her to take a drawn out gulp from her cup, all but draining it in one go, swallowing with a blissful sigh. It was only then that she turned to Sansa and said:

“Do you know what’s going on out there, my little Dove?”

“It’s...” Sansa swallowed thickly, the words sticking in her throat. She was sure she knew now, but she so desperately hoped she was wrong. “It’s Lord Stannis, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the Queen purred, a sound that crawled down Sansa’s spine.

“Then the battle has begun? That’s what is happening in the bay?”

“Oh, the battle at sea is already won, my love. What you see out there is Stannis’ entire fleet burnt to a crisp where they stand, turned to ash even before they knew they were aflame.”

“But... How?”

“Wildfire, Sansa.” The Queen took another drink, and the young Stark only now began to notice the way her hand lolled ever so slightly under the weight of her glass. “Gallons of the stuff. My clever younger brother saw a way to put it to use.”

“What did he do?” Sansa asked at a whisper, sure that she didn’t want to know, but too scared to live in ignorance.

“As soon as Stannis’ ships entered the bay, he had vast chains pulled across,” Cersei told her, staring into the bottom of her empty glass, swilling the dregs around like bloodstains. “Those men will never know what hit them. Couldn’t sail back, couldn’t escape.”

“They were just... Burnt?”

“That’s what happens when you try to take something that doesn’t belong to you,” Cersei added darkly, refilling her glass.

Sansa couldn’t help but feel the pinprick tingling of horror and pity scuttle across her skin. The idea of the flames, fire suddenly engulfing everything around her, with no way of escape.. It was savage. She understood little of war, her father wishing her to never know of the terrors he faced against the Mad King, but she thought that combat was supposed to be fair. Wasn’t that what knighthood was about? Fighting fair and staying chivalrous? This didn’t seem very noble to her; this seemed more like a massacre.

“Then... is it over?”

The queen smiled then, but it was neither kind nor comforting. It was a twisted abomination that wound her face into a hateful glare.

“No, Sweetling. It isn’t over.”

It was only here, this close to the queen who she had both admired and hated so much in equal measure, that she realised that the impassiveness, the seeming lack of care for all that was going on around her, was a mask held together only by her sneering contempt. Beyond it all, Sansa could see the fear that was brimming to the surface. She opened her mouth to speak, when a movement in the shadows behind the Queen startled her and made the words die before they left her tongue.

Standing in the dark, beyond the catch of candlelight, and unnoticeable to all who were not looking for him, was Ilyn Payne, his hand at the hilt of his sword, his face grim. The very sight of him made Sansa want to flee, but after she managed to stop her heart from racing, she was able to collect herself. She turned back to the queen, wild eyed.

“Why is Ser Ilyn here, Your Grace?”

“Do you know,” Cersei responded, pouring herself another glass of wine, “what happens when insurgents sack a city?”

“N-no...”

“Suffice to say, Ser Ilyn is here to protect us from the enemy...” Cersei’s eyes flashed darkly. “... And from those who would once have pretended to be ours.”

Sansa’s blood ran cold and all of a sudden she felt very small and very weak. She hated Ilyn Payne, from the way he stared at her with his cold, sharp eyes to the tarnished rust of her father’s blood that clung to his sword. She hated him with every nerve in her body, but now she was to believe that he was all that stood between every person in this room and the collective force of every knight beyond the suddenly paltry-looking door. She felt so very, very alone now, without the knowledge that, somewhere, no matter how far away, Sandor Clegane was at her side.

“Won’t...” She asked, finding her voice, “won’t your guards protect us?”

"And who will protect us from my guards? Loyal sellswords are rare as virgin whores. If the battle is lost my guards will trip on those crimson cloaks in their haste to rip them off. They'll steal what they can and flee, along with the serving men, washer women, and stableboys, all out to save their own worthless hides." The Queen shivered a little as she clutched her glass close to herself, sparing a glance toward the window where lovely young Tommen was watching out of the window with interest. “If the battle is lost, Little Dove, then so are all of us.”

“But... Their oath...”

“It’s ironic, really,” said the queen bitterly, “that the only knight of the Kingsguard that I would have really trusted to stay loyal is the only one who never took an oath.” She paused and looked pointedly into Sansa’s eyes. “Your Sandor Clegane.”

“The Hound... He-”

He didn’t believe in oaths, Sansa wanted to tell her, didn’t trust those who swore by them. When he made a promise, it was for him, not for some centuries old code that no one really meant any more. But she clamped her mouth shut and kept it to herself. He was hers, anyway, and she hardly felt like sharing him with one of the people who would see him disgraced.

 _‘Where are you now?’_ she wondered, her heart twisting in agony as she felt his absence beside her, ‘ _please, please be safe_.’

She could feel the swell in her heart. ‘Your Sandor Clegane’, the Queen had said. She no longer even had the mind or the energy to deny it. From Cersei’s bleak, drunken premonitions, it sounded like they were all destined to die here tonight, as though these may well be her last hours on earth. All that lay before her was blood and savagery. And come what may, she just didn’t care any more. The man she loved was far beyond her reach, and all she could hope for now was a quick and painless death. She was not, she thought as her hands balled into fists, going to spend her final moments denying herself any longer.

“He’d have kept us safe,” Sansa finally said. “A dog will die for you, and never lie for you. That’s what he told me. But he is no dog. He’s a man, and a brave one at that.” She narrowed her eyes unkindly at the Queen whose mouth had fallen open in surprise, and she mustered up every ounce of spite that her kind little heart was capable of. “And you were damned fools for casting him aside. He could have been your salvation, if you’d let him. Just as he was mine.”

She tipped the last of the wine back into her mouth and swallowed it down, the sharp taste of it distracting her from the needlepricks of tears that would otherwise had tipped down her cheeks. ‘ _There’_ , she thought,’ _it is said_ , _and what is said cannot be unsaid_ ’. And somehow, it felt like a vast black shroud had been lifted from her shoulders, like she could finally stop bowing beneath the grand weight of a lie that she hated. She was proud, she realised, prouder than she had ever been, all for her love of a man who could have given her the world, if only he’d been spared the chance.

In her heart, she dared Cersei to react, dared her to try and rain down her imperial retribution. But, more surprisingly, Cersei simply grabbed her decanter and drained the last of the wine in Sansa’s glass, tipping her own towards her in an invitation to drink. Warily, Sansa did so, clinking her glass against the Queen’s and taking a sip. They sat in silence, two women, composed and haughty while their world crashed around them. Finally, Cersei raised her eyebrows with a little shrug and said:

“Do you suppose it’s easy, Little Dove? Keeping my son from his temper and his whims?”

“Your Grace?”

“Of course it was foolish,” Cersei said with a weary sigh, cradling her head in her hand, knocking back the rest of her drink in a way that was really just going through the motions, “The Cleganes have been with my family for years. The Hound was more of a father to him that Robert Baratheon. Perhaps that’s why he is the way he is. Or perhaps it’s unfair to blame that on Sandor Clegane. Either way... He has protected Joff, and my family, for longer than I can remember.”

“So why?” Sansa asked, shaking her head in admonishment, “Why did you let him do it?”

Sansa knew it was a stupid question as soon as the words left her mouth. No one ‘let’ Joffrey do anything. It simply wasn’t a matter of allowing the thing to happen. The most one could hope to do was to be around to help clean up the mess that he left in his tempestuous wake. And with that knowledge, Sansa couldn’t help but feel bitterly sad for the woman who sat before her now, drunk as a lord and lamenting all of the choices in life that had led her to this moment, holed up in a room and waiting for the moment that the enemy broke down her door and tore apart everything she had ever loved.

At Sansa’s question, Cersei’s hand gripped tightly at the empty glass, so tightly that it was a wonder that it never shattered beneath her grasp. After a moment of wrath, however, she softened and set it onto the table, choosing instead to let out a sigh and look up into Sansa’s pitying eyes. How absurd Cersei found it, that after everything her family had done to this poor girl, she still had the heart to feel sympathy for her. Some people really were too soft; it was a marvel she had managed to survive this long.

The Queen was tired now. Too tired to fight. Too tired to exchange spite. As she watched her son gambolling excitedly as he watched the flames dance off of the Bay and into the sky, she found herself too tired for the tightly wound hatred by which she lived her life. It was too late for all of that now.

“So it’s true then?” the Queen asked instead.

“What’s true?” Sansa countered carefully.

“You and... The Hound.”

“Yes,” Sansa replied, holding her head high and declaring it with pride, especially as she saw Cersei’s nose begin to wrinkle unattractively in distaste, “yes, it’s true. I fell in love with Sandor Clegane. And it was so very, very easy. And...” She faltered, her pride never wavering, but her courage dying in her throat. “And loving him is the best thing I’ve ever done in my whole life. So... So even if you punish me, or give me up to Joffrey-”

“Oh, calm down girl.” Cersei muttered, waving her hand loosely to silence Sansa’s ramblings. “Do you think I care about that at this moment? Who you lift your skirts for is of little concern to me now.”

Sansa opened her mouth to correct her, and make sure she knew that there hadn’t been even the slightest bit of skirt lifting, but the Queen carried on.

“If you earn only one thing from me, Sweetling, even just the one, let it be that people have no choice over who they love.” She said this quietly, almost as though she hadn’t really meant to say it, but Sansa knew what she meant. It was no secret, really, that Cersei had only ever given her heart to one person, and that person was not Robert Baratheon. Who was Cersei to judge her for finding love with a man who could hardly love himself?

“I’m tired, Sansa,” Cersei said suddenly, tearing her gaze from the dark middle distance in which she had lost her thoughts and looking back into Sansa’s eyes. Her tone was irritable now, but there was no malice behind it; the young Stark got the distinct impression that she was being dismissed, though to what end, she didn’t know. “We have a long night ahead of us, my Dove, and I would spend the last of it with my son.”

She caught Tommen’s eye, who was just turning his back on the excitement outside, and she gestured toward him with both arms outstretched. The young boy ran to her in a happy little trot, so blissfully unaware of the dangers outside that threatened to come in, so ignorant to the desperate way that his mother clutched at him and stroked his hair.

There was so much love in the Queen, Sansa realised with a strange sense of confusion, so much affection and passion. But she hid it behind layers of vitriol so thick that only those she truly cared about could ever see the merest hint of it. It made her wonder, as she turned away from her, giving her some privacy with her son, just who Cersei could have been were it not for the monster of circumstance that put her where she was. If she had been someone of no consequence, if she had been someone else’s daughter, how happy could she have been? Her heart broke for _that_ Cersei, for the Cersei who could have been, for the beautiful young girl who might have dreamed of knights and love and happiness. It things had been different, Sansa and Cersei could have been twins, for all their hopes and desires and passions. But, for the Queen, it was never to be, and life had twisted her into something monstrous, something hard and sharp and miserable. It seemed like life had not been fair on either of them.

She went to take a seat away from the window, away from the excitement and the carnage. She would spend her last moments in peace, if she was able, and in the girlish daydreams that once she had invested so much time in. She would dream of great black stallions and the men who rode them, broad and burnt and handsome, and she would forget that outside of her little fantasies, the world was falling to ruin.

“Sansa!”

She heard the hushed little whisper, lilting and fierce, but she shut it out. She just wanted some peace before the chaos began.

“Sansa!” the voice insisted.

She lazily opened an eye and turned her head to Shae who had knelt down beside her in a way that screamed of secrecy and intrigue. The woman was darting her gaze about cautiously, as though something in her had sprung to life and she didn’t want anyone to know. She gestured for Sansa to bring her head down lower, closer, and the girl did, wondering what could possibly be so important now.

“What is it Shae?”

“Now is the time.”

“The time for what?” Sansa asked in bewilderment, shooting her eyes about the room to see if it was ‘the time’ for anyone else.

“Time for you to go,” Shae answered quickly, “Time for you to make your escape.”

“What? Shae, I don’t under-”

“There’s no time, girl, you just have to listen.” Shae crouched even lower and closer to Sansa’s ear and she spoke fast, her tongue rolling quickly over her words. “Lord Tyrion, he knew this day would come. He made arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” Sansa whispered back, dumfounded.

“Arrangements. He knew that this would be the only time that you could slip away unnoticed, and the only time you could make it down there with no one knowing.”

“Down where?”

“All the way down,” Shae responded darkly, “Down to the lowest dungeons, where your man is held.”

Sansa sat up straight then. If Shae was suggesting what Sansa was sure she was suggesting, the Hound was within her reach and she had hardly even known it. She felt her fingers curl and flex with energy, her legs shaking with the desire to run and bolt and spring into action. She glanced at the Queen for a moment, worried that her hushed tones might yet carry over to her ears, or the ears of her shadowy protector, Ilyn Payne, but Cersei’s attention was focused only on the blonde head of her son which she was kissing and holding tightly.

“You mean for me to...” she began, but stopped, shaking her head. Could she really mean for Sansa to break free of this place, to orchestrate a rescue? It was madness! She was only one girl, just one weak, foolish girl who had always relied on others to do the rescuing. Surely she couldn’t...

“No one will be watching,” Shae told her sensibly, “and the castle is mostly empty. Slip out now, and you will be gone before you know it.”

“But... I don’t know where-”

“Find a staircase, yes? And then go down. Keep going down until you can go down no more, and then find another staircase than can take you lower. When there are no more staircases, you’re there.”

Sansa’s heart was in her throat and her blood pounded in her ears. She wanted so much to feel hope and excitement and bravery, but Shae’s words were giving her nothing but terror – not for her safety, or her life, but for the possibility that she might believe in something only to have it taken away from her again. Her hands shook, but Shae took them in her own.

“This is your only chance, Sansa. You can do this.”

“But... But what if-”

“Do you think your Hound ever worried about ‘what if’?” Shae snorted in derision, “of course not. He barrelled in headfirst like a moron. But now you must be that moron too.”

Sansa paused for a moment, trying to find the malice in Shae’s words but, to her surprise, in spite of the harsh words, she found a hint of admiration there. Shae may have had a sharp tongue, but she admired people who took action, who took what they wanted. And Sansa so desperately wanted to take this chance with open arms. So she nodded dumbly and let the woman continue.

“Lord Tyrion instructed the stable boy to saddle Clegane’s warhorse should Stannis make his way to King’s Landing. You will find saddlebags with clothes, the Dog’s sword, some money, food, and other things.” She flapped her hand in dismissal. “It is not of import. You will find what you need to get far away without looking back.”

“Shae...” Sansa began thickly, her voice stuck behind her tongue, “What will I find down there? How will I...?”

“I do not know,” Shae replied, holding Sansa’s hands tight, “I don’t know. He may not even be...”

The hard, exotic woman surprised Sansa by curbing her sharp tongue for a moment, and when she looked into Shae’s deep, catlike eyes, she almost thought she found the wet makings of sympathetic tears, but they were quickly wiped away by her pragmatism.

“No matter what you discover, or how you find him – whether he yet lives or no – you must still escape. Tyrion insisted. This is your chance – hopefully for both, but definitely for one. You must go, no matter what. My Lord, he promised Clegane, promised that no matter what, he would take care of you. You must let him keep his word, honour his debt. Even if the Dog has perished, you must keep going. Find your family, your King in the North, or your Crow bastard. Find people who love you, and never again leave their side.”

She put her hand against Sansa’s cheek and rubbed softly, and the redhead felt her heart swell with affection for the woman, in all her scanty silks and wild curly hair. There was a sadness in her, and Sansa realised that this was a chance that the elder lady had likely never had, the opportunity for a freedom and a love outside of the walls of servitude. This was her chance, and she needed to take it for Shae, for her father, for the Hound, and most importantly, for herself. And though she was scared, she knew that, were this to be her end, and were she to perish in this pursuit, she may never find a worthier cause.

She nodded into Shae’s hand.

“I’m ready,” she told her, wiping the prickling heat from her eyes and steeling herself.

“Then take this,” Shae said in a businesslike manner, any trace of her previous affection gone in deference for good sense, “and keep it close.”

Like magic, from the many silken folds of her light, flowing dress, Shae palmed a long, thin blade, slipping it impossibly from the curved slope of her hips and pressing it into Sansa’s lap so that no one could notice the exchange of steel. She looked meaningfully into the girl’s eyes and insisted:

“If you need it, use it. Do not hesitate. Others won’t.” She shrugged. “Always keep it nearby. A woman should _always_ have a blade.”

And before Shae knew it, Sansa had wrapped her arms around the woman, wishing for all the world that their friendship had not been so brief. She paused in surprise for a moment, taken aback by the sudden rush of warmth, but then softened and patted the girl’s red hair with both awkwardness and affection. Perhaps, Sansa wondered, things would have been different if she had had Shae from the beginning ; a confidant, someone to turn to and share secrets with. But this was how it was, and so this was how it must be. She pulled away from the woman and said quietly:

“Why don’t you come with me? Come away with us, away from this place.”

But as soon as she said it, she knew that it was not to be. To flee, perhaps to be pursued, to be always looking back over their shoulders: that was not the kind of freedom that Shae wanted. And, if Sansa was not much mistaken, as she saw Shae’s eyes flicker briefly to the window beyond which men were losing their lives in bloody and brutal ways, she realised that there was a noble halfman who perhaps she was not too keen to leave behind. She patted her hand softly.

“No,” she said kindly, answering for Shae, “I know.”

“I wish for your happiness,” the woman instead told her with a tight smile, one that held back a multitude words unsaid and emotions unfelt. “And your success.”

And then she stood up, pulling the girl with her. Sansa quickly took the blade in her lap and pushed it up her sleeve, nearly pricking her finger on the sharp point. It was long and thin, and it fit perfectly along the line of her arm, sitting at the pulsing thin of her wrist, ready for action. The liked the feel of it there; it made her feel safe, calm, but it also made her think of Arya, springing about with that Needle of hers.

‘ _I have a Needle of my own now, little sister_ ,’ she thought wistfully, ‘ _and you would be so proud_.’

“I will distract the queen.” Shae told her, bringing her back to the present and snapping her from her thoughts. “You will slip out.”

“What if there are people in the castle?”

“Most will be on the battlefield now. There is too much going on, girl. No one will care for your wanderings.”

“Shae?”

“Hm?”

Sansa wanted to hug her again, wanted to hold her tight: they were strangers really, acquaintances at most, but Shae knew all of her secrets, and was laying her neck on the line for her, and in that covenant of secret-keeping, this woman had become her friend amongst the chaos. But she could not afford another embrace, for fear of attracting unwanted attention, and so she simply smiled up at her and said:

“Thank you, for everything. And...” She paused a little, searching for the right words. “Please tell Lord Tyrion that his debt is repaid.”

Shae nodded gravely, and then turned from her, walking out of her life as quickly as she had walked into it. She was making a beeline for the queen, who was already looking annoyed by the audacity of this strange woman who was calling out her name like they were best friends.

But Sansa did not have time to see what Shae would do with Cersei once she had her, what nonsense she would spin to grab and hold her attention.

As soon as the word ‘Cersei’ had finished falling from Shae’s exotic tongue, Sansa was already out of the door and running into the darkness.


	21. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds her way down to where the Hound is being kept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooo. Finally came back to and finished this chapter. I don't know why but this one felt like a real slog to get through. But I am really excited for the next chapter, so hopefully that should come p quick! Full disclosure tho, it's like 1:30 in the AM here, so I haven't read this back or spell or grammar checked it at all because I like SUPER wanna go to bed, so I'm sorry if it's p rough. 
> 
> As ever, thank you so much for still being around - I know my updates are sporadic at best, but I still have no intentions of dropping this story. I am determined to see it through to the end, which is still, theoretically, a long way off, so your patience and your kindness is always so appreciated. Your comments are also so kind, and I always love reading them so much, so thank you for that too.
> 
> If y'all wanna follow me on tumblr, you can find me at http://manicpixiedreamweeb.tumblr.com

Sansa pulled herself into a dark, shadowy little alcove and held her hands flush to her chest, trying to make herself as small and flat as possible so that she offered no silhouette into the dying lights in the castle. Footsteps came and went and echoed into the darkness, and she finally allowed herself to let out a long, low breath, the fingers that were curled around the slim blade concealed in her sleeve finally relaxing their agonising grip.

The Red Keep was mostly dead now, a ghost town of regal proportions, but she couldn’t allow herself to become complacent, in spite of the echoing loneliness that whispered down the hollow hallways. Every soul who resided here was either locked away or out in the bay, fighting and dying and burning and _hating_ and _hating_ and _hating_ , but she scuttled through the cold stone halls with the last remains of her hope locked away in her heart where no one could destroy it. Were she to be discovered, to be thrown in a locked room with all those helpless women in the Holdfast? That last little remnant of hope would die, as surely as she would.

When she was happy that she was alone once more, she drifted furtively out of her little hiding place, and she felt keenly the emptiness that now pervaded these damned bricks; she was only one spectre among a thousand other ghosts in this awful place, and soon even she would be gone - she hoped, anyway. If she could feel her way through these halls, under the flickering of burnt-out torches that no one was there to relight, if she could find her way down those stairs, and discover that dark place where dreams, and her Hound, had gone to die, then perhaps she could live for just a little while longer, live and love for however long the two of them were afforded.

She came to a set of stairs and remembered Shae’s words: ‘keep going down until you can go down no more, and then find another staircase that can take you lower. When there are no more staircases, you’re there’. There were still staircases, there was still light, there were still people. She was not yet there. Though, she asked herself as she began to slip quietly down her ever darkening route, bouncing lightly from step to step, how much further down could she go? How much closer to Hell must she go to find the man who should never have been sent there?

Outside the castle, the very air was shaking. It seemed to rattle the walls, the sturdy stone beneath her feet, reverberating into her bones as she tried to blind herself to the carnage that was happening out on the bay. But she couldn’t weaken her heart to their plight; there was nothing she could do to stop the tide of war. She could not change the heart of men.

All this fighting, all of this death and hate, and for some reason she could think of little but her father.

She could not shake the image of his kind face, even as she descended into the ever darkening abyss, the way his eyes crinkled and his mouth pulled up at the corners when he said her name. Would he be proud of her now, she wondered? Could he understand?

She had to believe that he would.

He had not liked the Hound, she knew that to be true. But he had seen a sliver of justice in him, of fairness and honour, even just for a moment when he put himself  between Ser Loras and his brother’s sword. And her father believed too in fighting for those who had no one else to fight for them, in defending those who stand alone against the world. Who but she would fight for the Hound?

Somehow, she found strength in her father as the cries of death and fear on the Blackwater grew louder, ringing in her ears as their owners saw the Stranger’s face reflected in their enemy’s eyes. She found strength in her father’s wisdom and in her mother’s kindness, in Arya’s fight and Robb’s nobility, in Jon’s courage, in Bran’s fortitude, in Rickon’s innocence. Her family were with her, even when they couldn’t be, even when they were lost to her.

She had to believe that her father would be proud.

The flickering lights were fewer and more far between now, and she held a hand to the wall to steady herself as she groped through the darkness to reach the next pool of warmth that lit her way. Even through the thick stone walls, she could hear the clashing of metal upon metal, of triumphant war cries and dying screams of anguish. That sound was leading her, terrifyingly, in the right direction, closer to the lowest bowels of the castle that sat against the waves of the bay. She was beginning to feel it too, the sense of damp in the air, a murkiness that could be felt on the skin but not seen. It prickled the hairs on her arms and made them stand on end.

And then, as she turned a corner and went to step down onto the next downward passage, she paused for a moment, staring down into the dark oblivion. There was no more light here. Her open palm balled into a fist against the wall as she steeled herself, tapping the stair below her with her foot to convince herself that she was not stepping out into nothingness. The air down here was cool, whispering a salty breeze that curled around her red hair and rusted her tears to a briny resolve.

There was no time to be afraid.

With her skirt gathered in one hand, careful not to trip over herself in the darkness, she made her way down the stairs, grimacing as she felt the dampness thicken into a strange, cold humidity as she went deeper into the cavern of darkness, where people went to be unmade and good men were left to fester and rot. Academically, she knew that the closeness of the atmosphere and the sweating coolness was because of the sea air that seeped through whatever windows and apertures were built into the lower ramparts, but still she could hardly bring herself to breathe it in, finding her breath catching in her throat in short, shallow bursts. Because, in spite of her own common sense, she couldn’t help but feel like she was breathing in all of the death and misery that had come before her, as though she were descending into a mortuary for the broken spirits of dead men.

The walls were becoming soft and slippery beneath her hand and when she first felt the growth of lichen beneath her fingertips, she recoiled sharply and felt her feet slide beneath her on the equally damp steps. She managed to catch herself before she fell and resolutely placed her hand back onto the wall, scarcely grimacing as she felt the mossy growth seeping out moisture onto her skin.

It was like entering another world. The floors before had been ugly, empty things, lined with cell doors and scattered with empty chamber buckets and the remnants of straw bedding that had been walked out into the corridors. They were sad and lonely, but they maintained some modicum of human decency. But now, as she continued her descent, down what felt like the deepest and most lengthy set of stairs in the world, it felt as though she were walking, eyes forward, into the seven hells themselves.

The sounds of battle were strange and muted here, echoing along the stony passageways until they were hardly discernible as anything but a chilling wail that never stopped. She stepped foot off of the final step and stood in the darkness, glancing this way and that down the different avenues, both of which stretched into the empty nothingness and howled with deafening misery.

She worried her lip with her teeth, hating herself a little for giving pause when time was her most precious commodity, but then nodded encouragingly to herself and chose a path, walking near blindly along the passage as she tried to discern shape and form in the shadows. Up ahead, there was a cell door open, lending light from the barred window within and casting a glow from the illuminated doorway. The cold blue of moonlight was all but overcome by the sickly green that Sansa had seen painting the bay with its unnatural flames, the wildfire that razed Stannis’ boats to ash.

They were so close to the Bay down here, so close that the acid fire was rising to lick at the base of the castle walls, and Sansa couldn’t stop herself from standing and watching its dance, the flickering beauty that had consumed and destroyed so much. Though she was untouched, watching it from the safety of her distance, the fear she felt for it froze her for a moment, and she could scarcely look away from the green of it, a sickly pallor that threatened to infect everything it touched.

And then she heard it.

An echoing roar, the strangled, horrified likes of which consumed the sound of the raging war below their feet, a torturous screaming that cut Sansa from throat to navel and reduced her heart to broken glass. Coming from behind her, down the path she didn’t choose, Sandor Clegane was dying.

Her fear fled her instantly, and her blood turned to steel. She turned on her heel and ran, no longer reaching for the walls or squinting in the darkness. She could hear him, deep in the shadows, far away and yet so close she could feel him. She ran, throat burning with adrenaline and desperation, the tears collecting in her eyes only compounding her blind pursuit into nothingness.

She followed the curving hallway around passing empty cell after empty cell, following the sounds of anguish and agony that filled her ears and drowned out all concept of anything but pain. Her feet slid over the damp stones and her fingernails clutched at mildew growths that lined the walls, but she didn’t care. Her heart was leading her feet, and they were bringing her home to her Hound.

As she rounded the corner, she finally saw light ahead, a lone, flickering torch that was dying down in the damp air. The sounds of the screams were deafening now, loud enough and close enough that she could hear the rasp of the Hound’s voice as he cried out:

“Please! Let me out! You fucking bastard, let me free!”

His anger and desperation was overshadowed by only one thing, something that she had never known from him before: fear.

She finally reached the lone torchlight, her legs weak with exertion, and she grabbed at the handle but found it fall away from her, the momentum of it pulling back almost causing her to trip and fall. She was stopped, though, by the hard slam of another body rushing to escape, running into her as they tried to leave. She jostled backwards and then looked up at the man to find a hard faced guard looking down at her in a mix of surprise and anger.

“The fuck are-“ he began to say, before his tone changed a little, though to what Sansa didn’t know. “My lady.”

She opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by the violent cries coming from the cell behind him. She could hear shackles straining from their fixtures as well as the litany of curses falling from mouth within.

“What’s going on!?” she cried, trying to push past but being stopped by the guard’s broad form, “what are you doing to him!?”

The guard slammed the door behind himself, impervious to Sansa’s small hands pulling at his arm. He twisted the key in the lock, clicking it closed, his movements unhurried as Sansa felt her panic rising, her heart fluttering like a bird in flight.

“I’m dying, for god’s sake, _help me_!”

“Let me in there, you brute!” she cried, pushing him roughly back from the door and pulling uselessly at the locked door handle, her heart breaking with every pained cry that came from within. “Let me in! Can’t you hear, he’s in danger!”

The guard only snorted, before grabbing her roughly under the chin.

“He’ll die anyway, either at King Joff’s hands or the hangman’s noose. He should have been down there anyway, the rotten bastard, fighting for his King.”

He pulled back and then looked her over, the Stark girl with her flame haloed hair, snarling at him from under her brown, her chest rising and falling with unbridled rage. She was the very picture of a wolf, lusting for blood and ready to strike. But he simply shook his head and smiled a cruel smile.

“Good men out there dying for pretty noble cunts likes yours,” he sneered, grabbing her arm roughly and jerking her forward with untrained aggression, “and you’re skulking around here for your murdering traitor of a lover.”

His hand slid from her arm to her hair, which he balled in his fist and tugged without grace, yanking her up to meet his gaze.

“If you don’t die tonight, Stark, I’ll see to it that Joffrey himself knows the extent of your treason.”

“Give me the key,” Sansa ground out between her teeth.

“He’ll fuck you bloody,” the guard continued, “and then give you over to the guards. And then send you back to Robb Stark ruined and-“

Suddenly, Sansa spat in his eye savagely and the guard made the mistake of letting go of the tight grip he had on her hair, allowing her to tug herself free. In the split second he took to wipe the wet from his eyes, Sansa elbowed him out of the way and fumbled with the key in the door, twisting and twisting until _finally_ she heard the clicking noise of the it being released. She pushed the door open and then let out a violent cry.

Inside, pulling at his restraints with the wild fervour of a thing possessed, the Hound was shackled to the wall, desperately trying to escape the flickering fingers of wildfire licking at his window. Like smoke, they trickled in, singeing  a his clothes and steaming in the damp with choking smog. She rushed forward to reach out to him, but the guard had her at her hair once more, yanking it back and bringing her to his knees as the Hound screamed in blind, animal terror.

“Your luck’s run out, bitch,” he grunted, dragging her back along the floor as she cried out in pain, “you’ll be-“

His words died out, all of a sudden, his snarl catching in his throat as his eyes grew suddenly wide and he looked down to his abdomen. In the tiny gap where his chest piece ended, just below the lungs, Sansa’s needle thin blade was jabbed upwards and into his ribs. Slowly, his grip on her hair loosened and she watched in horror as he met her on his knees and fell backward, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as his final breaths escaped him in quiet shock.

Her hands shook and she cried ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ as she rooted around his body, finally coming upon the ring of keys at his hip. She wanted to stop, wanted to look the terrible man in his unblinking eyes and beg for forgiveness, wanted to stare in shock and awe at what she had done, at the life that she had extinguished with her own hands. But the feeling of his fingers in her hair still burned at her scalp and the Hound still roared in terror, and she had the keys in her nimble fingers.

The dead were dead, but they could yet live.

She rushed over to the Hound who was staring at her, mad eyed, like she was a ghost, incorporeal and incomprehensible, but she could not stop now, couldn’t stop to reassure him that everything would be all right, that he would be safe. But he calmed as she touched his wrists, as she worked at his shackles, like a wild beast being tamed. He let his fears dispel as he looked upon her as though she was sent by the Seven themselves, and allowed her to free him from his bondage without so much as a whimper.

And when she was finally done with them, when the last chain was finally relinquished from him, he simply fell upon her, his body limp and weak, but his fingers clutching at soft flesh and billowing red hair, the only fire that he desired. She wanted nothing more than to embrace him, to lay his head in her lap and stroke away the damage and mistreatment that had been forced upon him, but behind them the fire still raged out of control and stretched inside the barred windows to try and pull them into the carnage of the Bay below.

“Are you hurt? Are you burned?”

“The flames...” he mumbled dryly, his throat as dry as ash, “There were... flames...”

“Did they get you?” she asked firmly, and repeated, “are you burned?”

“... No.”

She huffed out a sigh of relief.

“My lord,” she urged into his ear as he lay his head upon her shoulder, “my lord, we must leave.”

“You... You’re real?” he said hoarsely, half a statement and half a question, his brows knitting in disbelief.

She pulled away from him and wrapped her arms about his, pulling him toward the door and pulling him up to his feet as best she could. He was a dead weight, with a mass far greater than her own strength, but he allowed her to guide him as much as his weary weakness would allow.

“Please, my Lord, please we have to leave.”

“I...” he tried to pull himself to standing, resting his large hand on her tiny shoulder, but he fell back to his knees. He was kitten weak, but the hand that held her was as strong as iron. “I thought I had lost you.”

She went to her knees before him, a lump welling in her throat. She pushed his matted hair back from his face and did what she had desired to do from the moment he had been taken away from her, from the moment he had been wrenched from her life. She laid her hands on both sides of his face, rubbing her gentle thumb over the pitted crevasses of his burns, staring into the ruinous wreckage of bone and skin, and she told him firmly:

“Sandor Clegane-“ The words were an unfamiliar tumble in her mouth, the sounds slick and soft as she ran her tongue over them with such delicious joy that she could feel the ecstacy bubbling to the surface as tears. “- I love you -” She pressed her lips to his cheek. “- I love you –“And to his downcast eyes. “ – I love you.” And to finally to the beaten and bloodied line of his mouth.

She couldn’t say it just once. The moment it escaped her lips, it was a gushing waterfall of her fervent and undying adoration, and she couldn’t have kept it in if she had tried. And, with light spreading across his face, the love she put out into the world breathed life into him like a flower thirsty for water, quenched and whole and vibrant. She took him by the hands and rose back to her feet.

“But now we really must go. We have to get to the stables. I’ll explain on the way. Can you stand?”

He let out a weak chuckle and used her as a crutch to pull himself to his feet.

“Aye, Little Bird. I can stand.”

He made to move, but his steps faltered and Sansa rushed to wind herself beneath his arm, putting her own around his broad waist and doing what she could to support his weight. He still dwarfed her in his height and breadth, but as she snaked her arm about his middle, she couldn’t help but wonder at how frail he felt, a man reduced to rags and sinew. She had hardly dared to let herself look at him properly through the darkness, knowing that her heart was too soft to steel herself to the brutalities he had endured for her honour. Now was not the time to weep over his injuries; there would be time enough for that if they made it out of the city.

She looked up and she could see him take pause, reluctant to use her as a crutch, reluctant to lean on her with not only his body but his heart too. But, after a moment, she felt taught muscle soften as he let her take some of the load, wrapping his arm about her shoulders and resting his weight more heavily onto one side.

“So,” he groaned as they began to make their slow journey from the dungeon, stepping over the corpse at the door and into the murky hallway, “the stables?”

As they made the agonisingly slow journey from the lowest bowels of the castle back up and into the service corridors, Sansa tried to tell him as much as she could. When they stopped for a moment for the Hound to slump heavily against the wall, hacking out shaky breaths with eyes closed and fists balled, she told him of Shae and how she had tended to her after his arrest. As they held themselves still into a shadowy corner whilst frightened servants hurried about like scattered mice, she told him in whispers of the plan that Tyrion had formed that could only possibly be executed this night. And, as they made their final, aching, dragging steps out of the Keep and into the empty courtyard where a lone braying courser could be heard stamping about like a mad thing, Sansa asked him with tears in her eyes whether he could ever possibly forgive her.

The Hound waited until they were safely tucked inside the stable door and out of sight before he hefted himself against the wall and looked down at her as though she had sprouted two heads.

“What the fuck are you talking about, girl?” he rasped out, gesturing weakly at the water trough that stretched out along the stable doors.

“This is all my fault,” Sansa replied in a demure whisper as she dipped a small bucket into the trough, filling it halfway and picking out bits of straw that were floating to the top.

She handed it to him and he took it without a word, tipping it to his face with some difficulty. Without thinking, Sansa moved to him and put her small hands around the base of it and helped him to lift it to his lips, tipping it back as he took long, thirsty gulps of it. He drank it down like it was the finest wine he had ever tasted, not stopping for a moment to take a breath until it was all gone. Then he dropped it to his side and let out a ragged but sated breath.

Sansa wrapped her arms about herself shyly, her previous statement hanging in the air in agonising silence. She looked down at her feet, shuffling them a little in the dirt, wondering if perhaps she shouldn’t have asked the question if she was not prepared for the answer. She was about to turn away when suddenly she felt his large hand catch her face softly and then, not softly at all, bring it crushing toward his own.

His lips collided with hers in a clumsy, hungry embrace, his mouth open to devour her whole. He pulled her in, laying the whole length of her body against his own, swallowing her up, lungful by lungful, until she was reduced to a limp tangle of limbs and a mouth that was raw with the desperation to take whatever it was given. She knew they had to leave. She knew that time was of the essence. But his tongue was in her mouth and he tasted like brine and blood and anger and she wanted every single part of it until she drowned in his fervour.

But, after an eternity but all too soon, he pulled away from her, her face still held in her hand.

“If you ever ask me a silly bugger question like that again, Little Bird,” he told her, his tone light but his eyes filled with steely firmness, “then I will give you something to really be sorry about. You understand?”

“Yes,” she replied, her heart in bloom for a thousand reasons that she could hardly explain if she tried.

“Now come on,” he said as he wrapped his arm around her once more to lean against her as they walked, “you’ll have to help me onto Stranger.”

Sure enough, the great black creature was the only horse left in the stable, to wild and uncontrollable to be brought onto the battlefield by anyone but his owner. And the second the brutish stallion saw the Hound limping toward him, his stamping and braying ceased, and he became as sprightly as a colt once more, cocking his head against his shoulder and snuffling about for a headrub.

“Easy,” the Hound murmured in admonishment, though his pleasure at seeing the beast was poorly concealed.

True to his word, Tyrion had seen to it that Stranger was fully equipped for their journey, with saddlebags filled to bursting, a generous purse of coins, and even the Hound’s sword packed onto the horse’s back. Were in any other creature, Sansa was sure it would buckle under the weight of its burden, but Stranger stood proud in spite of his load.

“Here,” the Hound said, pulling himself to the horse’s side. “Do you know how to-“

“Please,” Sansa replied with faux haughtiness, her hands on her hips and a laugh on her lips. “I have two younger brothers and a younger sister. I know how to give people a leg up.”

“If you say so, Little Bird,” he snorted in return, “but unless you also gave a leg up to that enormous simpleton you have wandering around Winterfell, it won’t be quite the same thing.”

But they managed nonetheless, the Hound gripping tight onto his saddle pommel and dragging himself up with the last reserves of his strength as Sansa cupped her hands beneath his foot and gave him an almighty boost. Stranger was even oddly complicit as Sansa pulled herself up afterwards, sitting in fron of him with her skirt bunched uncomfortably around her hips. But she couldn’t bring herself to be modest now, not even as the Hound put his arms about her waist and leaned his head on the nape of her neck.

“Hold on tight,” he murmured in her ear, before giving Stranger a sharp kick in the ribs.

And then the courser was off in a heartbeat, racing out of the stable and through the courtyard of the Red Keep. Sansa watched as the castle – her prison – passed her by in a matter of blinks - and then swept by the empty city, all but abandoned as the battle raged on the Blackwater, the city in which she had witnessed enough bloodshed and misery for a thousand lifetimes - and then, finally, as they passed through the city gates, Sansa looked behind her at the looming silhouette of the Red Keep, and she whispered good bye to the head of her father, her noble, beloved father, who had lost his life there for simply being too good a man for that den of vipers.

She looked back on it all for only moments as the horse charged into the night, and then she turned her back on it for good, leaning deeply into the embrace of the Hound. They carried on this way for what felt like hours, the cool wind battering their faces with chill, until the city was just a hazy glow and a smell of war in the distance.

Then, and only then, did the Hound drop the reins and slump uselessly in his seat, collapsing unconscious against Sansa, giving into his exhaustion and letting his Little Bird guide the way.


End file.
